Place Your Bets
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: After five years in prison, Sherlock Holmes is released. Now, he's free, and with three missions: 1) Rob three high-security casinos in one night, 2) get away with it and 3), win back his ex-wife, Molly Hooper.
1. Good Behaviour

_**Author's Note:** Although I really can't afford to have another WIP, this one was too tempting. If it wasn't obvious, this is based upon the 2001 film, "Ocean's Eleven"._

_Obviously, characters do not belong to me. Which is a pity, because if I did, Sherlolly would've been canon by now._

_Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine. Forgive me._

* * *

The bar was not one he would have expected to find Mike Stamford in. It was small; dingy almost. A thin layer of dust stuck to the surfaces and any patrons sat inside the place were either asleep or falling asleep with a bottle in their hand. With a slight groan, Sherlock slipped onto one of the bar stools and watched as Mike Stamford caught his eye and gave a sigh before he fixed a falsely genial smile onto his features and stepped towards him.

"Good evening Mike," Sherlock said, voice low but his tone bright. Mike's hands stilled against the glass he was cleaning, and his eyes flickered with panic. When he spoke however, he was nothing but calm.

"Sorry mate. My name's Stephen." He tapped against the lapels of his waistcoat, where his name was embroidered on in lurid green thread.

"Ah yes," Sherlock said as he made an elaborate show of double-checking it before he directed an apologetic grin at 'Stephen'. "My mistake. I'll have a Scotch."

'Stephen' turned away, his shoulders sinking with relief. Sherlock watched, amused, as he prepared the drink and placed in front of him. Although some weight had been gained, five years hadn't really caused any major shift in Mike Stamford. He still possessed the same bland charm, that same 'married-with-two-kids' look which allowed him access into anywhere he wished. People were far too trusting of a blank face, and Stamford used that to his advantage.

"Lost in your thoughts again?"

He almost choked on his drink. What on earth was _she_ doing here? She didn't _know_ of places like this. He turned his head, but there she was, nails painted her trademark shade of crimson with both her hair and her clothing elegantly put together. She raised an eyebrow and took a glance around the darkly-lit bar.

"Never thought the day would come where I'd see you in a place like this."

"I could say the same for you," he said with a shrug and he gestured towards the stool beside him. She nodded once in acceptance and sat down, crossing her legs as she ordered herself a drink. 'Stephen', all too aware of the new arrival's identity, shook his head lightly but poured out the wine she'd ordered all the same.

"How long have you been out?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine. Sherlock glanced at his watch.

"Three hours, five minutes. The answer's no, by the way."

The woman forced herself to appear stricken. "But you don't know what I'm going to ask."

"Oh yes I do," he said with a chuckle as he took a gulp of his nearly finished Scotch. He looked to her. "I've been in prison for five years. Most people when they meet a recently released man asked what he was in for, or what he plans to do now he's out. They never ask how long he's been out. The answer is no, Miss Adler."

He gulped back the last of his drink and stood, but she wasn't ready to let him go just yet. That much was evident by the way in which she gripped at his hand; tight enough to make him pause, but not tight enough to raise any eyebrows or cause any pain. He turned back to face her.

"What makes you think I'll be good for it?"

"Because this requires planning and co-ordination and a brain," she said as she settled back on her stool, leaning against the bar. She gave a grin. "Plus, it's one of my better ideas."

He felt himself smile as he realised. "You want to rob a casino. Specifically, three."

"Very good, Mr Holmes. How did you figure it out?"

Keeping his eyes on her, he reached behind him and grabbed at the newspaper on the bar before he dropped it into her palms. She laughed at the headline splashed across the front page.

LUCK BE A LADY: TYCOON JAMES MORIARTY BUYS THIRD CASINO

"Am I that obvious?" she asked playfully.

"That ambitious," he replied, not bothering to hide his slowly widening grin. "When do you want to start?"

She raised an eyebrow, but if she was to make a remark, she quickly decided against it. Instead, she gave a shrug and flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Never."

"What?"

On seeing Sherlock's narrowed eyes, she sighed. "I already have a job going," she explained and she stepped off her stool and leaned towards him, squeezing her fingers against his upper arm. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "This one is all yours, Mr Holmes."

That was her goodbye. He didn't watch her leave. With a sigh, he tapped at the side of his glass. 'Stephen' quietly refilled it.

"You don't happen to know where Mr Watson could be found," Sherlock said absentmindedly as he sipped at the warm amber liquid. "Do you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone of that name sir," 'Stephen' lied smoothly. "And even if I did, I wouldn't know where he was."

"Might you have some inkling?" he pressed, taking another short, sharp swig of his Scotch before he reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette packet, followed by a lighter.

'Stephen' blinked in surprise. "I thought you quit."

"I got sent to jail. Difficult to maintain a smoking habit in a cell," Sherlock muttered as he put one between his lips and lit it. 'Stephen' gave another sigh. It was almost funny that he could be bothered to pretend to care about whatever smoking policy his place of work held. What was truly funny however was the way he struggled not to look as excited as a newborn at the sound of Miss Adler's offer.

It only took 'Stephen' a moment to fall away, leaving Mike Stamford standing there in his stead. He leaned forward.

"He was last seen in London, near the West End, running short cons."

"He must be bored out of his mind," Sherlock drawled as he took a drag of his cigarette. Mike hid an amused smile and shrugged.

"Perhaps. Just remember: you didn't hear anything from me."

Sherlock eyed Mike carefully and he slowly took another drag, his expression impassive. "What _possible_ information could a barman tell me?" He stood. "Thanks for the drink."

The door swung behind him as he left.

It was only a few minutes later that Mike Stamford discovered a card slipped underneath the abandoned Scotch.

_Quit your job. SH._

* * *

One haircut, one suit fitting and a train journey later, Sherlock was sat in another bar—much classier than the last one he had frequented thankfully; this one even had proper lighting—and he pinched lightly at the bridge of his nose with one hand and held a bloody tissue in the other.

"Head-butt to the face," he muttered. "A bit theatrical."

John Watson sat opposite him, flushed with rage.

"Five _bloody_ years," he hissed. "You told me you'd only be gone for two!"

"I clearly underestimated the British justice system," Sherlock said with a shrug, but John shook his head.

"Are you asking me to punch you again? What the hell do you want?"

Sherlock pressed the tissue to his nose and groaned uncomfortably as a dull pain tingled against his skin. He moved his head back to face his former friend and tried a smile. John's remaining scowl informed him that his attempt at lightening the mood had most certainly not helped.

"I'm thinking of doing a job. It'll be tricky of course, and a large crew will be needed—lots of planning too—"

He was cut off by John raising a hand. His features were twisted into an expression of utter disbelief. "Just how long have you been out of jail?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A few hours. Almost a day. Why is that important?"

John's answer was cut off by the arrival of a smiling bartender, female and wan in looks. On seeing the bloody tissue and Sherlock's equally bloody nose, she raised her eyebrows. "Can I… get you gentlemen anything?"

"A beer would be great," John said, rubbing at his temples. "Make it the strongest one you've got."

"I'll have the same," Sherlock said, and the bartender grinned before she moved away. John directed a withering look at him as soon as she was out of earshot.

"You hate beer."

"I know. Now, are you going to do this job or not? Will you help me?"

John sighed and leaned back against the leather of his chair. "Fine. I'll being roped into helping you anyway—what's the job?"

"A casino," Sherlock said as he pressed his palms together to steeple them underneath his chin. When he heard John give the inevitable splutter of disbelief, he grinned. "Actually three."

"_Three?_ You've gone mad. That isn't possible."

"Actually, it is—if you're hitting the right venues of course. To be specific; the Bellagio, the MGM Grand and the Mirage—"

"You _have_ gone mad."

"All of their takings are dropped off in the same vault; the Bellagio vault."

"Which is known to be the least accessible vault ever built!" John said impatiently, sitting forward. "Sherlock, this can't—"

"Two beers, as requested!" the bartender said brightly as she set them down on the table. John sat back and fumed as Sherlock brightly thanked her and pressed a crisp twenty pound note into her hand before he subtly waved her away. John rolled his eyes and made a grab for the beer bottle in front of him.

"You can't rob those casinos Sherlock," he said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand and shaking his head. "You just can't."

"I can, and I will. Whether or not you join me is entirely up to you." With that, he wiped the remaining blood from his face, stood up and departed from the bar. It was with a growing smirk that he counted down in his head.

4…

He'd be fidgeting, perhaps mumbling under his breath about the stupidity of it all.

3…

He'd glance at the two beer bottles and the bloody tissue. Wryly smile.

2…

He'd swear loudly—a whispered "shit," sounded behind him—and he'd jump up.

1…

"This had better work, so help me God," John muttered as he fell into step with Sherlock, who grinned wider as they stepped out onto the bustling London streets. It was when they got a short distance away from the bar that John spoke again.

"Who gave you this idea anyway?"

"Irene Adler. She suggested it to me soon after my release," Sherlock said as he stepped forward and waved down a cab. When he opened the door to climb inside however, he found that John had come to a halt and was looking at Sherlock with his trademarked look of _you utter bastard._

Sherlock gave a small nonchalant shrug and stepped inside the cab, only to be quickly followed on by John.

"The Diogenes Club," Sherlock said to the taxi driver, who nodded once and pulled away. Sherlock chuckled to himself and settled against the seat, watching the London scenery flit past. Five years had been far too long. Once this particular job was done, he decided, he would have to come back to London. Get to know it again—

"Please tell me this isn't about her," John said, pulling him from his thoughts. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him before he broke into a smile.

"Of course it isn't. What on Earth gave you that idea?"

John rolled his eyes again and tapped rhythmically against his knee. Five years hadn't changed Sherlock Holmes one bit.

He silently thanked God for that.


	2. The Financer

The panel was nothing special; a row of well-suited, cynical parole board officials. The woman in the middle—dark haired; married with one child—gave one small nod in greeting and gestured to the chair. When he chose to settle himself there, she crossed her arms and leaned towards him.

"Good morning." He didn't respond. Eyebrow raised, she tried again. Her voice was firmer this time. "Mr Holmes. Good morning."

Sherlock blinked once and cleared his throat, sweeping his fingers through his curls. "Yes, good morning."

"Thank you." The woman glanced dispassionately down at the folder in front of her as her colleagues sat with their pens poised over the pages of their notebooks. "Mr Holmes," she began, "the purpose of this hearing is to determine—"

"If I'll break the law again if you agree to my release. I know."

"Very well. This was your first conviction, but you have been implicated—yet never charged—in a dozen other confidence schemes and frauds." She lifted her head to look at him, false curiosity in her eyes. "What do you say to this?"

"I was never charged," Sherlock echoed, focusing his gaze on the man beside the woman. About mid-30s, he was wiry with black, combed-back hair. Married, with a mistress. Sherlock took a sweeping gaze over the rest of the parole board, and almost chuckled. Every single one of them was married. Perhaps that was fate's idea of a cruel joke.

"Mr Holmes," the wiry man said. "We are trying to find out if there was a reason for you to commit this crime or if there was a reason that you just got _caught_ this time."

Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat. He gave a shrug. "My wife left me. Naturally I fell into a somewhat self-destructive pattern."

"Naturally?" a blonde woman—late 50s, plastic surgery addict—asked.

"I loved my wife," he said, almost casually. He leaned back in the chair. "Of course I got upset."

"If released, is it likely that you'd fall back into a similar pattern?" the blonde woman asked, looking briefly at her notes. Sherlock eyed her carefully before he gave his answer.

"My wife has already divorced me once before. I don't believe she's _so_ heartless as to do it again."

* * *

Sherlock walked into the Diogenes Club as if he owned the place. The patrons inside the building glared at him momentarily as he and John swept past them, but none of them complained. They were too self-absorbed to do such a thing.

As a result, Sherlock and John soon found themselves in the office of Mycroft Holmes. On the shutting of the door, the newspaper in front of Mycroft's face lowered to reveal the man's face, sunk into a deep frown. He tried for a smile as the two of them sat down.

"Good evening to you brother," he said silkily. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Can't a man visit his brother after five years away?"

"You never made social calls before you went to prison, Sherlock—I doubt you'd start doing it now."

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, girls, calm down. Mycroft, we need your help."

Mycroft touched his fingers together and his eyebrows slowly rose.

"Really? I suppose by help, you mean money." He looked to his brother again, sniffing slightly. "You're planning a con. You've got that look again."

"What look?" Sherlock asked quickly, sitting up. "I don't have a look."

"Yes you do," Mycroft said as he sighed through his nose. "Mummy calls it the 'I-know-better' look. She's wrong of course—you only _think_ you know better. What's the con?"

Sherlock crossed his hands in his lap and sat back. "I'd rather you guessed."

To this, John sighed and swore under his breath about immaturity and time constraints—all trivial concerns—whereas Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock grinned.

"Go on; it's been an age. Have a little deduction. Indulge," he added, drawling the last few syllables. Mycroft looked at him for a long, long moment before he rose to his feet and moved over to a small drinks table. Pouring out himself a whisky, he spoke.

"You're obviously not here on a social call, so it's business. However, you've only been out of jail for barely a day, so it's clearly some newly acquired business. How? Your hair has been cut, and your suit is newly tailored. You're dressing for battle. Plus, you wear the standard markers for public travel, and you have traces of lipstick on your cheek, a very particular shade which is worn by only one of our mutual acquaintances: Miss Irene Adler." Mycroft finally paused for breath and he took a sip of his drink before he spoke again. "There's only one conclusion to all that: you, dear brother, have a job lined up and you wish for me to finance it."

Sherlock made no indication of being impressed by his brother's display of intelligent observation but instead nodded to the newspaper that lay flat on Mycroft's desk.

"Look at the front. That might give you an idea of what we have in mind."

Dutifully, Mycroft moved back towards his desk and closed the newspaper. It took him a second to scan the headline and a further two seconds to deliver his opinion.

"The Bellagio, the Mirage and the MGM Grand? No, Sherlock. This is too far, too ambitious. Even for you."

"How do you know?"

Mycroft sighed and settled back into his chair, crossing his legs. He looked directly at his brother. "I know casino security better than anyone on this planet, and I know for a fact that the Bellagio vault is completely and utterly impenetrable."

"Do you have that little faith in me?"

"No. I just have that much faith in the security. I did, after all, invent it. Casinos are not places where you can simply walk in, hold up a gun, say you're robbing the place and demand a specific amount of money. Casinos have cameras in every corner, guards at every turn and locks that are designed to withstand bombs. The President of the United States is less protected than a standard casino vault, let alone the vault of the Bellagio."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he listened to his brother speak. He sneaked a glance at John, who was watching Mycroft with a large degree of amusement. The source of their mutual mirth was obvious. Despite his insistence on bellyaching, it was widely known among by both criminals and businessmen alike that Mycroft reserved a special sort of loathing for James Moriarty, the young Irish-American upstart, and practically everyone knew that the loathing had only increased when Moriarty had—somewhat scandalously—ripped one of Mycroft's most profitable casinos from right underneath his nose.

"I don't see why you're so against the scheme," John said. "It's never been tried."

Mycroft gave a short laugh. "Never been tried? You two need to do your homework."

"We have," Sherlock said quickly.

"Do it again," Mycroft retorted, tone icy. "Many people have tried to rob casinos in the past, and many of them have failed before their plans could even take full hold. In fact, the closest someone has ever come to legitimately robbing a casino is being shot in the back in the car park of Caesars Palace in 1987. You two don't have a single hope."

There was a stone-cold silence as Sherlock and John considered his words. It was Sherlock who broke it as he quickly stood.

"Well, it seems you're right." He began to make for the door. "I couldn't possibly hope to pull it off. Good evening to you Mycroft. Must be going—lots to do!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Mycroft called after him. He jumped to his feet. "I haven't technically said no yet!"

"Well, you don't seem particularly enthused about the idea," Sherlock remarked as he stepped back into the office.

"I was testing you. Surely that was obvious?" On receiving no reply from either man, Mycroft sighed heavily. "You plan to steal from James Moriarty, and if you plan on being successful, you need to know what you're doing and why you are doing it. Because if you fail—"

"Oh, let me guess, I get killed."

Mycroft nodded. "But not before he's ruined you and run you into the ground."

"Like he ruined you?" John asked with a bright grin on his face.

Mycroft frowned. "James Moriarty did not ruin me. He merely… _inconvenienced_ me."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please. He bought you out."

"Unfortunately so. And now he's blowing it up in order to make way for something utterly ghastly. He calls it a chain hotel." Mycroft gave a visible shudder before he gave out another, softer sigh and he pressed his palms against his desk to eyeball the two men in front of him, studying them for a few moments. A smile slowly appeared on his lips.

"You really are determined to do it," he murmured. He looked hard at his brother. "But to do this job Sherlock, and to do it well, you are going to need people who are as mad and reckless as yourself."

Sherlock grinned as he opened the office door once again. "Don't worry. We've drawn up quite the list."

"Just one quick question: what exactly is your reward for doing this?" Mycroft asked. "Aside from the money?"

"Hm?"

"If you're going to undertake a job as complicated as this, you had better be doing it for a good reason. I for one, would like to see James Moriarty's smile wiped from his face. What motivation do you have?"

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and tilted his head, giving his best grin. "You'll just have to wait and see, brother mine."


	3. The Hacker and The Bomber

The yellow of the flickering street lamp lighting against his features, John kicked idly at a stray Coke can and took a quick glance at the abandoned building in front of him. Squirreled away in the backstreets of London, the paint peeled from the walls to reveal reams of old brick behind it, and litter cluttered the path up to the double doors. John sighed and made a mental note to stick as closely to Sherlock as possible. It wasn't because he was scared, far from it; it was more a result of his concern. After all, a drug den wasn't exactly the healthiest of places for Sherlock Holmes to be in, especially after five years away.

Sherlock, apparently nonplussed by or ignorant of (maybe both) his friend's growing concern, stepped up to the door and knocked twice, the sound heavy against the warped wood of the door. The only response was silence, soon followed by scuffling. The door creaked open and both Sherlock and John quickly stepped inside. The person who had opened the door for them was a man, tall and skinny, most of his features hidden by the vast hood he wore over his head.

Sherlock whirled around, smirking a little. "John, wait here. I'll just go and see if I can find our expert."

John chuckled. "No, Sherlock. You are not going off on your own."

"Why not?"

"Have you forgotten where we are?"

"Not at all. We're in one of London's most prime drug dens. Remember, I did drive us here." Sherlock said as he turned to head up a flight of stairs.

"That's precisely the problem!" John called up after him. "Sherlock! You're a former drug addict!"

"Don't fuss John!" Sherlock's voice echoed down the stairwell. "Any drugs here have no doubt already been ingested!"

John sighed and shook his head. Sometimes, Sherlock's arrogant and self-assured nature really played against him, and despite being ordered not to, he still found himself fussing and he still found himself jogging up the steps after his friend.

* * *

It was when he got to the first floor that he encountered his first obstacle. He had just stepped through into a wide, open room to find old mattresses and various junk scattered about the place along with a fair few sleeping addicts—but no Sherlock.

John had sighed and turned to continue his search when the same addict who had allowed them to enter stepped in front of him, his hood now down. John wondered how on earth he'd managed to even open the door, considering how high he appeared to be. The addict looked at him for a long, long moment, his sharp blues eyes unblinking.

"Who're you?" he said thickly, swaying on his feet a little as he tried valiantly to appear intimidating. John had to smirk at the effort. His smirk only widened when the man lifted a flick knife from his pocket.

"Really?" he said with a raise of an eyebrow, but the only response he got to that was a short nod of the head.

"Yeah. Get lost."

"Sure. Of course I will."

The addict never saw it coming. Stepping forward, John grabbed at his wrist, using the resulting surprise to grab the knife and wrench it from the man's grip and before the addict could speak or protest, he tightened his grip and twisted the his arm until he had it held tightly against his back. The man squirmed in pain.

"Gerroff!" he yelled, but John only smiled.

"Concentrating now are we? Where's Sherlock Holmes?"

He never heard the answer, for footsteps descended the flight of steps from the second floor and the tall, lean figure of Sherlock Holmes soon hoved into view.

However, on seeing his friend holding a drug addict in a vice-like grip, he only chuckled and stepped forward, holding his hands behind his back. He nodded once at the drug addict.

"Wiggins." John's mouth dropped open, only to drop wider when the man now known as Wiggins nodded straight back.

"Sherlock. Do you, er, mind…?"

"Not at all. John, you can let go now."

Without a word, John loosened his grip on Wiggins' wrist and slowly stepped back. Choosing to ignore his confusion, Sherlock instead stepped forward and held out a hand in greeting. Wiggins grinned and took it.

"Nice to see you again, Mr 'olmes."

"Okay," John said with a slight laugh. "Anyone want to explain to me what's going on?"

Sherlock flicked a grin at him. "John, I'd like you to meet our hacker: Bill Wiggins."

* * *

Once John had calmed down, the three of them had filed out of the den and down the street, choosing to settle in a nearby café, small in size and cheaply priced and most importantly of all, quiet.

Wiggins was the first to sit down at a table, having chosen one that sat in the furthest corner and both Sherlock and John soon followed his lead.

"So," Sherlock said as he coolly brought out a cigarette packet and took one, putting it between his lips. "Why the drug den?"

"Being an 'acker has gained me some notoriety among the governments of the world. The CIA have been tryin' to hire me for a while; they've been lookin' everywhere for me."

"Except the drug dens," Sherlock said with a tone of realisation. His mouth widened into a smile as he lit his cigarette, and Wiggins nodded.

"No-one thinks a drug addict could be a genius. I never used to do the stuff 'course, but I did sell it, on and off. Some people,"—at this, he raised an eyebrow at John—"can't differentiate between the two."

"So how do you do your work?" Sherlock asked after a moment, his tone languid as he leaned back in his chair. "I'm sure even drug addicts would notice a computer server or two around the place they get high."

Wiggins laughed and reached into his pocket of his hoodie, bringing out a smartphone and throwing it onto the table.

"An 'acker's blessing, those things. With the right programmin', I can do whatever I want wherever I want. Barely 'ave to be at home."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this, but his smile remained. "There's a job for you if you'd like it."

"What is it?"

"Robbery. It is in Las Vegas though, so that might prove a sticking point. Unless of course, you can deal with your little problem?"

Wiggins shrugged. "False ID always proves a good temporary deterrent. Should give me a couple of weeks; maybe a month. Just give me a couple of hours and I'll be fine."

Sherlock's smile widened and he slowly reached into his coat pocket to bring out a single plane ticket. It wasn't even on the table for five seconds before it had found its way into Wiggins' own pocket.

"I 'ope you've got an inside man already," Wiggins said as he picked up his phone and began to tap furiously at the keypad. "I'm gonna need him to scope out and outline the security of the place for me."

"Mike Stamford has recently suffered from a mid-life crisis and has unexpectedly quit his job," Sherlock explained. "He's said to be transferring to warmer climates."

Wiggins grinned, his eyes still on his phone. "Good work, Mr 'olmes—and Mr Watson. I'll see you both soon."

He pushed his chair out from the table and stood, swiftly flipping up his hood as he departed. John watched him leave, and couldn't help but feel a simultaneous feeling of amazement and disbelief.

To pull off such a complicated con as this, Sherlock was going to need people who were just about as crazy and as determined as him.

Luckily, it seemed that he was well on his way to finding them.

* * *

For the next few weeks, John's time was mostly spent at 221b, his and Sherlock's old base of operations. Days and nights merged into one another as the two men eagerly and vehemently discussed ideas, drew out plans, scribbled down lists and made phone calls.

Soon enough, they acquired the drivers for their plan. Gary and Billy, they were well known for both their superior knowledge of cars and their easily exchangeable devotion and loathing for one another, despite the fact they had been together for up to ten years. After marrying a year ago, they had claimed to be retired from their life of crime, but when Sherlock had contacted them and found that they were now spending their time in Derbyshire and terrifying tourists with a scam about some legend about a glowing dog, it took him only a matter of minutes before they had agreed.

The only time they did come across a slight hitch in their plan was when they contacted Greg Lestrade. A thief and explosions expert, Sherlock claimed him to be highly efficient—for a man who essentially blew things up for a living.

When they had contacted him, he'd immediately refused. "Got another job on," had been his reasoning.

That same job he'd claimed to be so busy on was the exact reason that John was now sat in the passenger side of Sherlock's car, dressed in a cheap and ill-fitting suit clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket. Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking briefly towards the clock.

"Two minutes past twelve," he murmured. "Any minute now."

John nodded slowly, keeping his gaze on the bank opposite them. "What do you think he'll use?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A simple G-4 mainliner, back wound, quick fuse with a drag just under 20 feet. But that's a guess. He might surprise me; but I doubt it."

John smirked but didn't ask how on Earth he had managed to guess Lestrade's methods so accurately. He had long ago given into the idea that he would never quite understand the way in which the man's mind worked.

Any further reflections he might have had were swiftly interrupted by the sound of alarms from the bank and the immediate shriek of sirens from the arriving police, who quickly swarmed at the entrance of the bank and moved into the building one by one. John sighed lightly and made to open the door.

"Park around the corner," he threw over his shoulder to Sherlock as he stepped out of the car, shut the door and hurried through the rain towards the scene, where Lestrade and his gang of fresh-faced thieves (all of whom wore the same expression of surprise) were being escorted quickly from the building. The gang were all swiftly packed into a police van whereas Lestrade was held back, pulled to the side so the DI—a short man with a heavy build and thick-framed glasses—could speak to him.

"Are you absolutely sure there isn't anything in that bank that my team should be aware of?"

"Wait a minute!" Lestrade said indignantly. "Are you accusing me of… booby-trapping?! I'm not a bloody amateur!"

The DI sighed. "It's a necessary precaution—"

"I wouldn't worry about necessary precautions," John said smoothly as he stepped forward. The DI frowned as Lestrade skilfully pretended never to have seen him before. John continued. "Lestrade here is correct. His style isn't to booby trap a building. Himself on the other hand…"

"H-Himself?" the DI asked dimly, his brow furrowed. "Are you sure?"

John nodded and resisted the temptation to laugh. It was amazing how much people trusted a stranger if he acted with enough authority.

"You have searched this man, correct?"

"Well, not yet – I was waiting for the Chief Superintendent to arrive – and he hasn't yet—"

John rolled his eyes and took another step forward before he took a hold of Lestrade's arm and turned him around, beginning to search him. The DI blustered.

"Sir, the Chief Superintendent—"

John aimed a withering look at the bespectacled man, stilling his words.

"I've just told you that this man poses a security risk and you're still worrying about the Chief Superintendent?"

"Well, I just—"

"You can stop worrying," John said quickly as he continued to search Lestrade, patting him down. "He's arrived."

The DI breathed a sigh of relief and let out a nervous chuckle. "Okay. Great. I'll get out of your hair."

As soon as the DI was out of earshot, Lestrade gave out a laugh.

"You'd make a hell of an actor," he said, glancing over his shoulder. John grinned as he undid the cuffs around Greg's wrists and slipped a small pile of explosives into his waiting palm.

"How quickly can you make something out of that?"

"Already done."

"How long?"

"30 seconds."

"Great." He turned his head as he grabbed at Greg's arm again and pulled him away from the police car to hurry him down the street, yelling over his shoulder. "EVERYBODY DOWN! EVERYBODY DOWN!"

Right on cue, an explosion sounded behind them.

Quickly, the two of them increased their speed and began to urgently run. On reaching a junction, John turned them around a corner and down a short alleyway into a back street, where Sherlock's car was waiting patiently. Not wasting time, he bundled Greg into the back seat before jumping into the passenger seat. With a squeal of tyres, Sherlock sped away.

In the back of the car, Greg chuckled as he sat up. "They weren't expecting that!" He looked to Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "I don't suppose that job offer's still open?"

Sherlock smirked and reached into the glove box to bring out a plane ticket and he held it out to Greg, who only grinned wider.

"I have to admit," he said as he ruffled at his hair, "It'll be great to work with some real villains again."

"Oh, I wouldn't exactly call us villains, Lestrade," Sherlock drawled as he drew up to a set of traffic lights.

"Yeah? What would you call us?" Sherlock grinned and turned his head.

"Opportunists."


	4. The Acrobat and the Old Timer

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes for perhaps the hundredth time that evening. The stage in front of him—if you could call a circle of ribbon and some candles a stage—was well lit and two men, dressed entirely in black, brought out two long vertical poles and set them into the centre of the circle. Sherlock's gaze flicked towards the sign fixed to the wall behind the stage, where the words _Golden Dragon Chinese Circus_ were painted on in golden calligraphic writing.

His attention was brought back to the stage when a young woman and man—clearly brother and sister, according to the resemblance they shared—walked out, dressed in customised versions of traditional Chinese dress. They bowed as the crowd politely clapped. Sherlock however only huffed gently, and reminded himself never to follow John Watson's advice again. They needed someone skilled—not a performer only used to rehearsed and basic tricks. They needed someone with instinct; someone who would know what to do if anything went wrong. Performers did not do that. They had procedures to follow yes, but they did not have the impulse needed for this kind of job.

"Can't we get someone else?" he hissed as the male of the two climbed skilfully up one pole and threw his arms out in a pose of balance.

"There _is_ no-one else," John muttered, touching at the back of his neck as he continued to watch the show.

The male began to shimmy back down the pole and he bowed deeply as the rest of the audience clapped. The female stepped up. Like any other acrobat, she was small in height and slender. She smiled as she took a bow and swept her long dark hair into a secure bun at the base of her neck. Her smile fell away however, as she stepped up to the pole and was replaced by a steely look of concentration.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and watched a little more intently as she tightly gripped her hands around the pole and, just as her brother had done, climbed quickly up it.

Unlike her brother however, she did not simply strike a pose and wait for applause; what she did so was take a heavy, steading breath and without missing another beat, she somersaulted from one pole to land straight onto the other. Yet before anyone could applaud, she flipped herself off the poles and landed perfectly on the floor to give a small bow.

The applause sounded again, but this time, Sherlock actually joined in.

* * *

After being made witness to a series of ever more impressive tricks from the brother and sister duo (though her brother was too technical and too focused on hitting the right marks to be at all interesting) for an hour, Sherlock's mind was more than made up, and after the show was over, he felt no qualms in stepping away from the departing crowds and he quickly slipped into the back of the theatre, where the corridor had been temporarily filled with racks of costumes for the duo.

In her dressing room, the female acrobat was already changed from her outlandish costume and was now sat in front of her mirror, dressed in a plain set of a shirt and jeans with her face bare of all traces of make-up.

Sherlock knocked quietly on the door, but that was more than enough to cause her to jump around in fear, clutching at her chest. On seeing Sherlock stood there, she quietened and bowed her head once.

"Soo Lin?" he asked, gesturing to the name on the door. She nodded, and he smiled, proffering a hand to her.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Do – you mind I don't, Mr Holmes?" she said quietly, her gaze flicking towards his outstretched hand. Sherlock immediately let it drop back to his side. There was something wrong with this picture; she was too afraid to be termed merely shy.

"I have a job offer for you, if you'd like to hear it."

Soo Lin shook her head. "I can't accept."

Sherlock scanned her for a moment. She appeared perfect on the surface—clean hair, freshly pressed clothes, neatly organised work surface—but a tendency to scare easily along with the chewed nails and the habit of never looking someone in the eyes for more than a second at least spoke not just of anxiety, but also of a past or youth that would rather be forgotten.

Folding his arms behind his back, he tried again. "If you do this, Soo Lin, you will have more than enough money to stop performing tricks every night. Perhaps you could even escape what it is you're running from."

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence between the two until a smile twitched at the edges of Soo Lin's mouth and she slowly brought up her gaze to meet with his.

"You believe so, Mr Holmes?"

He decided to take that as what it was meant to be: a yes.

* * *

"She's coming then?" John asked as Sherlock stepped out of the building's entrance. Shoving on his gloves as they briskly walked through the cool evening air, Sherlock shrugged.

"Poor immigrant acrobat forced to make tuppence with a Chinese circus after escaping an abusive childhood? Of course she's coming." He pressed his palms together in thought. "We do still need Mrs Hudson though."

"She's retired," John said as the two of them moved to cross the road. "Moved to Wimbledon a couple of years ago."

"Oh. I wondered why she wasn't at Baker Street. Where could I find her?"

John shrugged. "Last I heard, she's become rather fond of the dogs."

* * *

The familiar sound of dogs barking and spectators chatting echoed around the walls of Wimbledon Stadium. In the stands overlooking the track, Martha Hudson watched as the greyhound lined up, one by one, at their starting points and clucked a little in thought. Her companion—a very nice elderly man who dressed elegantly and spoke well, but lacked in manners—hummed and tapped his fingers against the paper in his hand before he gave out a light sigh and looked to her.

"Well, Apollo looks like a good candidate to win. How about that?"

Martha smiled. "Sounds lovely."

"Wonderful," her companion said jovially, "but I think I just have to pop to the loo—would you…?"

"Oh, don't worry about that!" Martha said, waving a hand to usher her companion away. "I'll make the bet for you."

Almost as soon as her companion had stood and had begun to weave through the stands and the spectators, a figure approached where she sat, dressed sleekly in a dark suit and settled into the chair beside her. Martha raised an eyebrow at her protégé, and smiled. He gave a single nod.

"Enjoying retirement then?"

"I have a nice little flat, and I play bridge on Sundays."

"But it's not satisfactory."

"Of course it isn't." Martha's tone was bright, as if she were discussing the weather and not her discontent with retirement.

Around them, the other spectators began to settle down for the beginning of the race. Sherlock watched as the starting horn sounded and at the gates immediately flung themselves open and the greyhounds flew from their starting points, panting and growling as they pounded their way around the sandy track.

Disinterested, he leaned back into his chair and looked back to Martha.

"John told me you retired because of ulcers?"

"Oh, they're all cleared up. Only my hip gives me any bother now," Martha said and she tapped lightly on her right side to emphasise her point. Sherlock briefly raised his eyebrows in an attempt at sympathy before he pointed to the track.

"Which one did you bet on?"

"I don't make bets," Martha admitted with a small shrug. "But coming here's better than sitting inside all day."

"Yes, well—you're never supposed to make a bet you can't win." Martha aimed a warning look at him.

"Don't repeat my words back to me Sherlock Holmes. My hip may be bad, but my memory is as good as anything."

To this, Sherlock said nothing but he instead retrieved a rectangular white envelope from his jacket pocket and dropped it onto Martha's empty lap. He knew there was little more to say in regards to his offer. Martha Hudson was after all, the woman who had trained him in the art of the con. True to form, she didn't ask any questions but only smiled and picked the envelope up to briefly examine it. Her eyes brightened.

"I wondered why you looked so happy," she said as she opened the envelope to reveal a plane ticket stuffed inside.

"By the way," Sherlock said, "that companion of yours—just like everyone else these days, he's married."

"He's also a millionaire and easily gullible," Martha murmured in reply as she drew a large, leather men's wallet from her side. She arched an eyebrow at him. "I may be an old workhorse, but there's life in me yet."

Sherlock grinned. "Clearly. I'll see you in Las Vegas."

Armed with this knowledge, he proceeded to swiftly leave the stadium and Mrs Hudson. Ten was just enough to be able to competently pull off the job and the plan that he had in mind.

Of course, this wasn't a job that could be done competently done; it was one that had to be done skilfully.

Ten just wasn't enough, he mused as he exited the stadium to the sounds of disappointed groaning from the people who had lost and cheers from the people who had won. No, he needed more. Just one more, of course.

He cracked a grin. Yes. Eleven would be just about perfect.


	5. The Thief and the Newcomer

The steel of the ship's rail was cold against her skin, and the sea breeze, stiff and unyielding, whipped against her, causing tendrils of her scraped back hair to flutter in front of her face. Taking a sip from her champagne glass, she sighed and leaned closer against the rail, propping herself up against it. Behind her came the muffled sounds of a party she should've been happy to involve herself with. She sighed and rubbed against the back of her neck. This whole event was so—traditional. Old-fashioned. Exactly what a woman like her could've ever wanted.

There was only one other person on the deck, stood a short distance away from her. In contrast to her pale silk evening gown that clung in exactly all the wrong places (but it was expensive, so of course everyone told her she looked marvellous), he was clad in a dark, well-fitting suit. A flash of deep purple at the collar indicated the colour of his shirt. His curls were as equally dark as his suit, and fluttered far more gracefully in the wind than hers ever could. His features, from what she could currently see, were well-defined; his jawline especially so. She prayed he wasn't handsome.

So when he turned his head to look at her, she cursed her eternally rotten luck. He nodded towards the muffled music.

"You're missing your party."

He smiled and tilted his head, almost in an invitation for her to talk. She decided to reject his silent offer, but instead take another, longer, swig of her champagne.

"I – I suppose I am," she said, cursing herself for letting herself stutter. He was just a man, after all. A man making conversation.

"Engagement or reception?"

"Engagement."

"Hm."

"You look a little bit like him, actually." She immediately closed her eyes and sighed heavily. Why exactly had she thought that was a good or wise thing to say? She aimed a hesitant, apologetic smile at him. The man however, only raised an eyebrow.

"Your fiancé?"

_Only ten times better. _She nodded and raised her left hand to show him her engagement ring. A simple silver band with a cluster of four small sapphires, it was subtly expensive. That didn't stop it from feeling like a ton weight on her finger.

"I'm a taken woman."

The two of them left this statement hanging in the air. The gaze he directed at her was intrusive, intense and in a way, really rather enthralling. A smile touched at the edges of his mouth.

"So I suppose it would be remiss of you to be found talking to another man."

Her eyes remained on him as she gulped back the rest of her champagne. Her dimples deepened.

"Probably."

The man sighed and stepped closer to her side as he, like her, leaned himself against the ship's rail. However, he did not choose to focus on the sea view as she did; instead, he positioned himself in such a way that meant she could not escape his gaze, even if she wanted to. That same gaze scanned over her form.

"That dress looks awful on you."

She let out a slight guffaw of a laugh, turning to face him.

"If that's a pick-up line—"

"Why should it be? As you said – you're taken." His knowing smile gave her the distinct impression that he didn't really care all that much.

"So it was an opinion?"

"And a refreshing one, if your reaction is anything to go by."

Catching herself, she swallowed her smile and lowered her gaze, even though her nails bit at her palm as it itched with the temptation to slap the man. She supposed the fact that he was right didn't help either. The music, a muffled pounding of disco songs, continued on behind them; only for drunken cheering and singing to join in with it, the volume of the revellers rising high above what they attempted to sing along to. The man beside her remained quiet. They shared a smile.

* * *

The Underground car swayed as it made its way along the tracks. As was usual for the London Underground, it was cramped and crowded and no-one made eye contact with one another. Hidden away in the car, stood with a newspaper in one hand and a pen in their other, was John Watson. Ostensibly, he appeared to be stuck on a particular clue from the newspaper's daily crossword. Yet, if someone were to look closer or perhaps for a little while longer, they might have noticed that it was not the crossword that took up his time or his attention; it was a fellow passenger. She was short like him, and had cropped blonde hair. Thick-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose, and her clothes and bag were the plain, standard clothes of a regular Underground traveller. Squashed between a male and a female, she held her book close to her face, intent on her reading.

John had to admit it: he didn't quite know why Sherlock had insisted they track her down. She was relatively new in the criminal underworld, having popped up on only a few radars of her fellow criminals. Sherlock had been one of them.

"Member of my network noticed her," he'd said that morning as he'd pressed a small, slightly blurred photograph into John's hand. Despite the photograph having been taken in a hurry, her features were still clear to see. She was pretty enough, but her choice of dress made her plain enough not to be noticeable. The most taking thing about her though, was her eyes. She had clearly been turning her head as the photograph was taken, and as such, the photographer had managed to obtain a full face shot where they might have otherwise got a profile shot. Her eyes, wide as she looked around the carriage, were a shocking blue. She was, really, quite attractive. Sherlock continued to talk.

"She tends to stick to the Northern and Circle Lines. Her targets are often businessman too stupid to notice." Sherlock paused before he spoke again. "She comes highly recommended too."

John didn't look up from the photo. "Who by?"

"The best."

Finally, John tore his eyes away from the photograph to look to his friend. "What? You?"

"Flattering John, but no. AGRA."

AGRA: Alexei Grigori Roman Aksakov. A man proud of his Russian heritage, Alexei had started his career in the criminal underworld as little more than an errand boy for the bosses of the Mafia. A combination of politician levels of charisma, tendencies towards violence and ruthlessness had allowed him to quickly move up the ranks, until a particularly bloody coup allowed him to become the Pakhan, or the boss, a position he had securely held for nigh on 25 years.

"Should I ask how that recommendation came about?"

"It was less of a personal recommendation than you're thinking of," Sherlock admitted. "I was searching for an eleventh member and my network found her; one of Alexei's errand boys found me at roughly the same time and delivered the recommendation on his behalf."

"And you don't think that could be a coincidence?"

"I doubt it."

"But she's a pickpocket – she won't be used to the long con," John replied, brows furrowed. Sherlock shrugged.

"All got to start somewhere. And she must be good if the Russian mafia has faith in her."

* * *

John continued to watch her as the car bypassed through one station and back into a dark tunnel. His smile grew and he briefly glanced down as she yawned widely, her eyes briefly flicking around the carriage for any prying eyes. He managed to look up quickly enough to see her, as the car gave a sudden and familiar jolt, accidentally stumble forward and press herself against the gentleman in front of her. The gentleman, seemingly dazzled by her following apologetic smile, didn't notice her withdraw his wallet from his coat pocket and deftly slip it into her own. The tannoy sounded.

"Next stop: Victoria Station. Victoria Station, next stop. Please remember to take all your personal belongings with you. Thank you."

She smirked—briefly—at that, and John felt himself smile as he looked back to his crossword.

* * *

Mary darted out of the train almost as soon as the doors opened, pausing only to flash a large, slightly flirtatious grin at her mark before she turned away and headed up the stairs, moving through and with the mass of commuters. That hadn't been her best lift in her life, but the weight of the wallet now stuffed inside her coat pocket more than made up for her technique. Her smirk returned to her as she stepped through onto the main floor of Victoria Station.

That same smirk soon disappeared when she dived her hands into her pockets and felt not the thick, fat width of a businessman's wallet, but a thin rectangle of a business card. Frowning, she glanced at it. It was blank, but for two handwritten words and a pair of initials.

_Blacksmith's Arms. JW._

* * *

Located down a small side street and just a few minutes' walk away from the station, The Blacksmith's Arms was a small place, not frequented by commuters but instead by a handful of regulars, all of whom were either too drunk or too self-absorbed in their own conversations to care about what was being said at the table next to them. The perfect place for a private conversation. When Mary walked inside, her gaze immediately zeroed in on a man sat in the booth furthest from the door. From her vantage point, he had two items in front of him: a beer, and a wallet. Closing the door behind her, she hitched her bag onto her shoulder and slowly moved towards him. He smiled and held up the wallet.

"Morning – great lift by the way." He reached into his pocket and brought out a plane ticket. "There's a job offer here if you want it."

Mary's eyes narrowed as her eyes flicked over the man's form, examining him.

"Not my best," she replied finally, giving a shrug before she parked herself opposite him. "So, who recommended me?"

"Who said anyone recommended you?"

"Come on – no-one willingly seeks out a pickpocket."

The man chuckled, nodding his agreement. "I suppose so. Alexei recommended you. Or at least one of his lackeys did."

"Well, he would." Her heavy sigh seemed to intrigue the man, for he frowned and raised an eyebrow.

"You don't seem impressed?"

"Of course I wouldn't be," Mary said, tucking her palm under her chin, leaning forward to pick up the ticket. She gave a soft sigh as she looked it over in her hand. "He's my dad."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"So am I." Mary raised an eyebrow as she looked back to the man. She felt herself smile the smallest of smiles. "Las Vegas?"

"Mm-hm. If you do this job, you'll be able to carve out your own legacy."

Lips pursed, Mary considered him.

"What's your name?"

"John Watson."

His eyes shone a little as he stared at her. She didn't need to say her answer; he already knew it.

"Well then," she murmured. "Las Vegas it is."


	6. Planning the Heist

"You know," Sherlock mused, lazily shuffling a pack of cards, "Las Vegas is an almost illogical place."

John pulled himself awake from his nap and shifted in his seat, his gaze falling to the dextrous way in which his friend's hands worked the cards. Somewhere overhead sounded the familiar airy tone of the plane announcements. John folded his arms across his chest.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock laid down a set of two pairs. "To the amateurs – the people who go in blind and believe they can beat the system – it's nothing more than a trap."

Scooping up the cards, he shuffled the pile again and laid down another set; this time it was a flush. "To the professionals – the players – it's a playground. They gain money, they lose money but in the end, it's all harmless fun. But for people like us—"

Sherlock paused, coolly picking up the cards to swiftly deal out another hand. "People who are consistently on the lookout for marks, loopholes and ways to win – Las Vegas can only be only one thing, really."

John reached forward to pick up the hand that Sherlock had dealt. All the same suit, ten to an ace; royal flush.

"And what's that? What's Las Vegas to us? To you?"

Sherlock focused his gaze on John and grinned. His eyes shone with anticipation. "A battlefield."

* * *

It was two weeks before the heist that the eleven gathered together. Mycroft had—somewhat unwillingly—sacrificed his Las Vegas home, located some distance off the main Strip, for the planning and on the arrival of the remaining ten criminals, he quickly had them ushered onto the back terrace to indulge in drinks as they waited for their real host to make his appearance.

The mood however was one of impatience. Conversation was short, brief and entirely meaningless. The food was barely touched, and the drinks were only sipped at. Many of them had their eyes on the house, silently and eagerly awaiting the invitation to come inside. The only one to not make conversation or even eye contact was Mary Morstan. Sat on one of the sun loungers, she kept her gaze dropped to the floor and her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her fingers tapping lightly against her forearm. Even when their host did make his appearance, stepping as casually out of the house as if a host to a dinner party would, followed on by John and Mycroft, she did not look at him.

"Welcome to Las Vegas," Sherlock said, his gaze sweeping over the men and women in front of him. "I assume many of you have been here before. Now, the job that's about to be proposed is ludicrous, as John Watson has told me many times before now, so please don't feel the need to do so, not to mention dangerous and without proper and precise planning, probably won't even work."

There was silence as the group considered his words. Seemingly only bolstered by the lack of reply, Sherlock gave a smile and continued.

"You can leave if you wish and there will no hard feelings. You'll have missed out on what would've been the biggest job of all your careers but there'll be no hard feelings."

His smile widening, he stepped back inside. It only took a moment's hesitation for everyone to follow on.

"Sherlock tells me you're descended from Alexei."

Mary, having not moved for the entirety of Sherlock's spiel, finally craned her head to find Mycroft Holmes staring down at her, a mixture of contempt (she hazarded a guess on that being his default expression) and genuine curiosity on his features. She gave a nod.

"It's not that I don't want to—"

Mycroft gave a sigh. "Get inside the house, Miss Morstan."

* * *

When Mary stepped into the living room, she found the rest of the group arranged on a set of three sofas, with Sherlock and John stood in front of a large television monitor. Sherlock was busy setting things up, but on hearing her footsteps, John turned his head, gave a smile and gestured to the empty space beside him. More than aware of the glance and the rising of an eyebrow that Sherlock aimed at her, Mary settled into the sofa, with Mrs Hudson sat on her other side. Happy everyone was settled, Sherlock stood, pulled a little at his collar and stood to face the group. On the television monitor, an architectural layout flashed up. Sherlock began to speak.

"Welcome to the Bellagio, the Mirage, and the MGM Grand. Three casinos, all highly profitable, and all with one common element: the Bellagio vault." Lightly picking up a remote control and flipping it casually between his fingers, Sherlock pressed a button. On the television monitor, an animation began to play, showing the ins and outs of the Bellagio vault. He continued. "This vault is located approximately two hundred feet below the Strip, and every scrap of money – whether it be dollars or dimes – that comes through these three casinos ends up in that one vault."

"And that's relevant how?" Gary's voice piped up. Sherlock flashed a smile.

"Because we're robbing it, in about – two weeks from now. Why else would I be showing you this?" As everyone took a breath and exchanged glances with one another, but as the animation continued playing, Sherlock only resumed his speech, nonplussed by their surprise. It was rather amazing, really, how determination made a man so blithe about such a large project. "Obviously, a vault with such a magnificent amount of revenue pouring through it is going to have a fairly tight security system. The Bellagio is no exception. Firstly, there's the issue of getting through to the casino's cages—"

"I'll bet that takes more than a smile," Lestrade remarked to which Sherlock nodded once.

"Indeed. Secondly, we have to get through a pair of doors, both of which can only be opened through the use of a six-digit code that are routinely changed about every twelve hours. Thirdly, there comes the matter of the lift."

"There are two problems with this," John explained, standing and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "The lift won't move without authorized fingerprint identification and vocal confirmations from both the security centre within the actual Bellagio casino and the vault underneath."

"And we won't be able to fake either of them?" Martha said, to which John nodded.

"Oh, and to add the icing on top of the cake," Sherlock said, "the elevator shaft is rigged with motion detectors, which are designed to cause the shaft's exit to lock down, trapping anyone who might be attempting to manually override it. But the lift is the trickiest part of it – once we get down the shaft, it's pretty much like any smash-and-grab job any of you have ever partaken in. We only to have get past three guards armed with Uzis and tackle the issue of the most elaborate vault door ever conceived before we get to any actual money."

A numb silence grew over the group as they absorbed the knowledge of the task that lay ahead of them. It was only Martha who gained enough composure to actually raise a hand and speak.

"I suppose it wouldn't be possible to tunnel in?"

John shook his head. "That's out – Richter scales are embedded deep in the ground, and they monitor everything for, oh, about one hundred yards? Yeah, a hundred yards. Truth be told, they'd know if a mouse was there, let alone a group of robbers."

"Any good news then?" Wiggins asked, sniffing a little and knocking back a gulp of whisky.

"Yes, actually," Sherlock replied. "It's stipulated by the Nevada Gaming Commission that every casino must hold, in reserve, enough money to be able to cover every chip that's at play on its floor. As the Bellagio vault services three casinos, it must, by law, hold roughly sixty to seventy million. Of course, that's during the week. On a weekend – it ranges between eighty and ninety million. But on a fight night, which is coincidentally, two weeks from now, the Bellagio vault must hold _at least_ one hundred and fifty million. I'll leave you to do the sums."

Only more silence followed his declaration, but it was not the numb, shocked silence of previous. It was a silence that was filled with a rapidly swelling awe. Glancing round at the group, Sherlock dropped the remote control onto the coffee table and took a sip of his drink.

"I have a question." Sherlock turned to see Soo Lin, brows furrowed, cross her legs and lean forward; intrigued, but holding back. "Let's say we do get into the cage, and through the security doors, then down the elevator that we won't be able to move in any which way, past the armed guards and into a vault we can't open—"

"Without being seen by the cameras," John muttered, tucking his chin against the palm of his hand.

"Oh, yes, cameras – sorry, forgot to mention that." Sherlock gestured to Soo Lin. "Carry on."

"Okay, so let's say we manage to do all of that Mr Holmes – how exactly are we supposed to walk out of this casino with over a hundred million dollars and not get stopped?"

Sherlock eyed her coolly, his confident smile intact. "I never said it would be _easy._"

Soo Lin gave a nonchalant shrug. "Fair enough."

* * *

Not a day later, the Bellagio received a booking of their largest suite under the name of Simone Zerga, with rumours and whispers indicating her to be the German widow of a wealthy international arms dealer, and with such pedigree preceding her arrival, no staff questioned her viability and instead welcomed Zerga's own personal staff with a short, knowing nod of the head.

Settling into the opulently put together suite, the eleven soon affixed themselves to various tasks. The first, as per the plan, was reconnaissance; a perfectly simple task that really only involved tailing their target, Jim Moriarty—much to the chagrin of Mary, who was assigned to tail him from the moment he stepped inside the Bellagio right up until the moment he departed—as well as the skills of Mike Stamford. With a stunning amount of bland charm, a good ear and an easy smile, he wormed his way into the lives of his colleagues at the Bellagio, learning and filing away whatever crumb of information he was provided with.

The second task was the tackling of power, and on learning what his part would be in the heist, Lestrade gave a grin, clapped his hands and leaned back on the sofa, propping his legs up on the coffee table.

Wiggins, also sat on the sofa and busy setting up a platform of computers on said coffee table, tutted and swiftly brushed Lestrade's legs away. Ignoring the petulant nature of their hacker, Lestrade looked to Sherlock.

"Throwing the switch on Las Vegas? That sounds like fun."

"Yes I'm sure it'll be a barrel of laughs for you," Sherlock said impatiently, stood at a nearby table, glancing over a sheaf of architectural plans. "But can you do it?"

"Let me put it this way: you can go broke, blind or bedlam. Which would you like?"

Sherlock's head snapped up. "What if I wanted all three?"

Lestrade smirked. "Happy to do it."

"Good." Sherlock focused his attention back on the plans. "Wiggins, how are we doing with surveillance?"

The computer monitors flickered on, illuminating Wiggins' features in a bright green glow. His mouth turned down into a frown and he sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Well… at first look, it's pretty much a labyrinth."

"So you can't access it?" John asked, entering the lounge and sitting down at the table, gulping back the coffee in his hands. Wiggins shook his head.

"Nah. They've tried their best, but it's not entirely inaccessible. I'll probably have to do a black bag job on it. How many in-house technicians does this place have?"

"Two," Sherlock said, not looking up from the plans. "And according to Mike Stamford, one of them is particularly lonely."

John glanced at him. "How do you know that?"

"He's in a one-sided relationship with a stripper. Apparently, her name's Charmaine."

"Charmaine?"

"She dances at this nightclub just off the Strip," Wiggins said distractedly. "Making her way through medical school."

He craned his neck up to find that Sherlock, John and Lestrade were all looking to him, varying degrees of disbelief on their faces that their hacker, chained to his phone and his computers as he was, would know of _any_ kind of woman. He gave a shrug.

"She's a good dancer."

* * *

With a smile, Charmaine dropped the card into Wiggins' waiting palm and easily pocketed the twenty he gave her in exchange.

"Thanks," he said with a smile, flipping the card over in his hand. "I'll have it back in an hour."

"Sure thing." She nodded briefly to the balloons Wiggins clutched in his other hand. "Happy birthday by the way."

* * *

The casino floor of the Bellagio was, similar to everything dealt with in the building, managed with a quiet but firm hand. The security centre, often regarded to be the beating heart of the MGM Grand, was a place where every worker had their eyes on at least five cameras, monitors and cameras tracking every last movement made within the casino. Any troublemakers were swiftly removed, and cheaters were immediately banned, with the consequences of their actions only being exchanged as whispers and rumours; gossip which became so embellished with every re-telling that fantasy soon became so tightly weaved with reality that some often gave up trying to discern which was which.

Quickly, Wiggins walked down the corridor of the casino cages, glancing at the doorways as he went. After acquiring the ID card, it had proved relatively simple to slip inside unnoticed. Just a quick change into a uniform and an adoption of a tendency to stutter and lower his head, and the staff of the Bellagio looked straight past him, seeking something far more interesting. In his earpiece, he heard Sherlock speak.

"Do hurry up – I estimate you've only got a fair few minutes – about five or so."

Wiggins smirked. Five or so? More than enough. Finding the correct door, Wiggins pushed it open and slipped into the circuitry room, bathed as it was in blue light, the only sound being the low hum of the computer servers. Walking forward and kneeling down, he got to work.

It was in the hotel room that Sherlock and John watched the set of monitors, which had so far remained blank. John, anxious in his impatience, leaned forward with his gaze consistently flitting between the monitors and the floors, as if the harder he clasped his hands together and the whiter his knuckles turned, it would somehow have an effect on the speed of Wiggins' work. Sherlock sat back against the sofa, slowly rolling a whiskey glass between his fingers and drinking regularly as, one by one, the blank computer monitors flickered on and the two men were met with the images of the Bellagio casino's security. None too soon after, an unmarked door was opened and Wiggins stepped out, cheerfully whistling with his hands shoved into his pockets as he made his way back onto the main floor.

"Oh shit." John's remark caused Sherlock to sit up. In response to the silent question directed to him by his friend, John pointed to one of the monitors. Sherlock watched as a guard, apparently suspicious, entered the unmarked door. He made a low noise at the back of his throat and pressed his hands to his mouth, his features crinkling into a frown. The guard reappeared, now clutching a portable monitor in his hand. Definitely not good. John grabbed at the microphone.

"Billy," he almost spat the name, "a guard's approaching you. Get out of there, quick."

On another monitor, Wiggins duly increased his speed to a wandering jog. The guard, still holding the portable monitor, rounded a corner and on seeing Wiggins opening the cage door, hurried forward and clasped him on the shoulder. For a man who had been caught red-handed, Wiggins was remarkably calm as he turned. The guard however, offered the monitor out towards him.

"You dropped this." He gave a friendly grin. "The reception on that thing must be pretty great."

Wiggins took the monitor from the guard's fingers, nodding. "Mm – it is."

"I'll have to get one of my own."

"Yeah – I'm certainly not going to share mine," Wiggins remarked, and the guard laughed, holding the door wider for Wiggins to slip through.

Having watched this whole exchange with bated breath and wide eyes, John gave a relieved sigh and drew his hands over his face, sinking against the sofa. Sherlock smirked, looking to him.

"Honestly John – if you're so prone to nerves, you really shouldn't be in this business."


	7. The One Who Matters

With unfettered access to the Bellagio casino now at their fingertips and Mike Stamford regularly drip-feeding information to them in regards to the internal running of the casino, it was soon decided that it was time for Simone Zerga, wealthy German widow, to make her debut. Of course, that called for some new clothes.

Martha Hudson gazed into the set of full-length mirrors in front of her. A fresh-faced tailor stood next to her, watching with a patient smile as Martha touched hesitantly at the silken fabric of the suit jacket she now wore. Behind her, on a large sofa, sat Sherlock and his brother. Mycroft tilted his head, his lips pressed tightly together.

"I wouldn't ask." Sherlock's voice was quiet, yet still somehow managed to sound endlessly smug. Dismissing the comment, Mycroft looked to Martha.

"Mrs Hudson," he said idly, and he twirled his cane between his fingers. "Are you entirely sure you're ready to go through with this scheme?"

Martha made no immediate response. Instead, she swallowed, glanced at Sherlock through the mirror and turned. Her eyes locked onto Mycroft's. Her gaze was steely. Sherlock was pretty sure it was the first time he had ever seen his brother actually flinch before.

"Dear, if you ever ask me that again,"—her tone was unnervingly steady—"then I can assure you that you will not live to see the beginning of next week." She gave a sweet and sincere smile. "Is that understood?"

She tugged pointedly at the hem of her jacket and turned away as Sherlock poorly stifled a laugh. Mycroft, suitably chastised, remained silent.

* * *

It was later on that afternoon that a large black car pulled up to the sidewalk of the Bellagio casino and two well-suited men, fitted with earpieces and dark glasses, got out. As the smaller of the two retrieved several shoulder bags and suitcases from the boot, the taller man moved towards the passenger side door and opened it. A woman stepped out, her eyes narrowed in a severe gaze as they absorbed the opulent sight of the casino. As the arrival of Simone Zerga had been eagerly expected by both floor and managerial staff, no-one offered her any sort of verbal greeting but instead gave polite, short nods as she strolled through the casino, towards the hotel.

Sat outside the entrance to the casino's restaurant, Mary and John watched Martha make her way past them. Mycroft's fears were unfounded. She gave off the image of a woman deeply convinced of her own superiority perfectly well. One could see why Sherlock Holmes respected her so much. (He may never have spoken of the respect out loud, nor even shown it that well, but the fact that he was so ready to put so much of the con onto her shoulders spoke volumes.)

Mary glanced at her watch. "Hm. Moriarty should be arriving by now."

"Oh, yeah." John lazily picked at the portion of shrimps he had decided to indulge in. "C'mon then – what's his routine?"

"He arrives here, at the main entrance, at two o'clock every day," Mary said, shifting a little in her seat. "Greets the valet as he steps inside. They're different each day, but he remembers all of their names."

"He's a charmer then."

"Charming enough for people not to notice how much he dislikes them," Mary retorted, to which John chuckled, drawing his finger against his mouth and gesturing in an invitation for her to continue. A brief smile flicked across Mary's mouth, picking out a shrimp and chewing on it. "After arriving, Moriarty makes his way up to his office, where he works until about seven o'clock, which is when he goes to the main floor. There, he talks with Sebastian Moran, the casino manager and pretty much Moriarty's right-hand man."

"How long do they talk? An hour? Half an hour?"

Mary shrugged. "Only a few minutes. If he's there for more than ten minutes, it's usually to deal with a problem. Once he's done with Moran, he heads to the high rollers tables; spends a few moments talking to them and thanking them for choosing his casino. They're smart though – they can tell he's only there out of professional courtesy, so he doesn't stay long."

"And after that?" John asked, running his fingers against his chin. For someone who had purported reluctance towards tailing anyone, she was awfully thorough.

"At 7:30, he leaves for the casino entrance where he's handed a black portfolio which contains profits for the day and the new security codes." Just as Mary finished, Moriarty duly breezed past them and walked towards the casino entrance where a staff member stepped forward and pressed a black folder into his palm. John flicked a grin.

"Impressive."

"You told me to follow him. By the way—" Mary said and she lowered her voice as she leaned towards John. "You do know who you're dealing with, don't you? If this thing succeeds, Moriarty isn't going to let this go. I presume you've heard about the last time someone tried to cheat in one of Moriarty's casinos."

"I did. And you don't have to worry – Sherlock knows what he's doing."

Mary dropped her gaze, scratching at her knee in thought. "I like to think that's true."

John let her statement hang in the air, unanswered, and pointed out to the sidewalk, where Moriarty, still holding the black portfolio, stood.

"He hasn't left yet. Why's that?"

"Oh – forgot to mention that. He's waiting."

"Waiting for _what?_"

Mary only shrugged and shook her head. "No idea. Don't know who she is."

"She?" John asked, incredulous and his eyes soon zeroed in on a silver car pulling up to the sidewalk, which Moriarty quickly walked towards as the passenger door opened. A woman stepped out. Greeting Moriarty with a delicate smile, she allowed him to steer her gently into the casino, chatting amiably to him as she brushed a curl of her long, chestnut hair out of her eyes.

"They usually head towards the restaurant," Mary said. "I've no idea if she could be important or not, but I suppose with a little more digging—"

"She _is_ important." John's tone was short and curt. He stood, buttoning his jacket. His eyes remained locked on the retreating form of the woman. Mary frowned, sitting up.

"John? What – how is she important? How—"

"_She_ is Sherlock's ex-wife."

* * *

Another significant aspect to the planning of the heist had been that of construction. Under Sherlock's keen supervision and through the use of the obtained architectural plans of the Bellagio vault, the group had been able to begin reconstructing the design and structure of the vault in an abandoned warehouse, conveniently owned by one Mycroft Holmes. That evening, Sherlock had been absorbed in supervising the final stage of the build. His absorption was soon disrupted when he felt an almost violent tug at his arm. Turning his head, he came face to face with a decidedly seething John Watson.

"We need to talk."

Sherlock knew a command when he heard one.

"Maybe we should take this outside." He turned away and began to walk towards the street outside the warehouse, but they were barely outside before John finally managed to speak.

"I swear, Sherlock," he breathed. "I swear I will punch you. You promised me that this _wasn't_ about her."

Sherlock said nothing but only moved his head a little and stuck a cigarette between his lips, only to have John immediately wrench it away and throw it onto the concrete.

"Is this about her? Answer me," he bit out, tucking his hands against his hips. Sherlock shrugged.

"A bit."

"You bastard!" John's anger echoed. "Sherlock—"

"John, listen. Listen to me." Sherlock stepped forward. His tone was calm, but the passion behind it was obvious. "When I began in this world, and this business, I had one rule and one rule only. One which you adopted."

"Play the game as if you had nothing to lose."

"Nothing to lose, exactly. I lived by that rule for years – it was easy for me to do so. Until I gained something. I gained a marriage – in truth, I gained Molly."

"And by your own actions, Sherlock, _you_ lost her."

"I wasn't the one who filed the divorce papers," Sherlock said pointedly. He gave a shrug. "But you're right. I did do something wrong; I made a mistake. I went to prison, and I lost her as a result. That's why I'm here."

"Okay, okay. So let's say you are here to atone for what you did – what happens if this job goes wrong, hmm? What happens if you are, again, forced to make a choice?"

Sherlock held his gaze. When he spoke, his voice—his demeanour—was assured and confident.

"I'm not going to have to be the one who makes that choice, John."

* * *

It was on the train that he'd found her. Freshly showered and suited and already with the seed of an idea planted into his mind by one Irene Adler, Sherlock had settled easily into his reserved seat in the train carriage and had folded out the newspaper he held in his hand. The headline screamed out at him again.

LUCK BE A LADY: TYCOON JAMES MORIARTY BUYS THIRD CASINO

With a laugh, he had gone straight to the page of the main article. The article was the same old tabloid guff, spreading rumour as if it were true fact with only snatches of real information peppered within the words to make it seem like plausible journalism. There were a few sentences however, that did pop out at him. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned forward, peering at the small newsprint.

"His most recent companion…" he read out, letting the words roll around in his mouth. _His most recent companion, who still remains unidentified._ Sherlock's eyes traced over the rest of the article, but there was no more mention of said companion or any connection they had with Jim Moriarty. No potential for importance. He was more than prepared to dismiss the companion as little than more than a trophy girlfriend—common among people like Moriarty—until he managed to zero in on a picture which accompanied the article. Taken by the paparazzi, it was one of Moriarty, heading quickly out of the MGM Grand casino, with a smile plastered onto his features for the cameras as his bouncers moved on ahead, forging a path through the photographers. Just off to the centre of the photograph however, was the aforementioned companion. Moriarty's hand was wrapped tightly around hers. She had her head down, presumably out of embarrassment over being photographed in such an invasive manner, but Sherlock Holmes knew his ex-wife anywhere.

With a smile, he closed the newspaper and folded it up, dropping it onto the seat beside him. He stared out of the window, his gaze just briefly flicking towards the headline. His smile grew. Luck be a lady indeed.

* * *

"How did she look?"

John huffed, unable to really believe the tenacity of his friend. "She looked – great, actually."

Sherlock smiled, but said nothing. Instead, he turned and quickly headed back into the warehouse. John closed his eyes and shook his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose. Even if John didn't kill Sherlock soon, purely out of frustration, he had an almighty feeling that Molly Hooper might just do it for him.


	8. You Must Remember This

Martha sighed and scanned the set of cards in her hand before she looked over the rest of the high rollers sat around her at different blackjack tables. All of them were men and all had an expensive veneer of fashion about their clothing and superiority in their smiles, fake and charmless as they were. Targets, every single one of them—but targets for another day. Right now, she had to play her part.

She saw Moriarty approach out of the corner of her eye, but remained involved in the game and only looked around when she heard him greet her with a mention of her name.

"Good evening Mr Moriarty," she said coolly, her German accent more than convincing. "I presume your staff have told you that I wished to speak to you about an important matter?"

The blackjack dealer's hands immediately stilled, but it was after a short nod from Moriarty that they discreetly moved away. Martha set down her cards and aimed a sliver of a smile at the man she intended to rob. She'd forgotten just how delicious this could be; wetting the target's appetite whilst looking them over, seeking any weaknesses they may have had. Moriarty had only one weakness: the need for power, but the unwillingness to wield it. If anything, he was a spider. He spun endless webs, but never actively sought anything out. No, he let things come to him.

Time to play him at his own game.

"I understand there is some kind of boxing match being held at one of your casinos on Saturday. On that particular night, I have a package due to arrive." She eyed the still silent Moriarty. "It is a package that is very dear to me."

Moriarty scratched a little at his cheek. "Might I ask what it is?"

"A black briefcase, standard in size. But it is the contents which hold the most value to me."

"Well, our VIP guests have free use of the house safe, we can arrange—"

She shook her head. "The house safe will not do. What else can you offer me?"

"It's the house safe, or nothing, Mrs Zerga." He flashed a smile, but the attempt to close the conversation was clear. Almost a pity that she was so determined to keep the conversation wide open. She picked up her cards, lazily shuffling them one by one.

"Mr Moriarty, if you can suggest anything else besides your house safe, then I can assure you that… well, your generosity will not be forgotten."

His smile softened into a frown of consideration of her blatantly subtle offer. It was a risky move, admittedly, to pretty much outright bribe an owner of a casino, but one quick look of Moriarty and his behaviours told her that he wasn't the sort of man to report or reject such an offer.

"I suppose we could – accommodate you, Mrs Zerga."

Martha smiled and reached for her drink, a half full gin and tonic. Holding it towards Moriarty in a silent toast, she took a sip.

* * *

The restaurant was quiet, the clientele rich and the staff efficient. Over in the corner, by a window which detailed a superb view of Las Vegas, she sat. Her hair was wrapped back in a large bun, and her dress was subtle in its expense, choosing to show off the body of the wearer rather than the money it took to make it. He had half expected her to be smiling and exchanging in easy small talk with the staff, but as always, she surprised him. Silent and still, she seemed to stare into space, absorbed in her thoughts as she took a sip of her wine. Folding up his collar, Sherlock moved forward and weaved around the various tables. Quickly, he fished a bow tie from his pocket and deftly tied it around his raised collar. She, still unaware of any intrusion, picked up the menu in front of her and scanned it, cupping her cheek against her palm. He grinned, retrieving a set of glasses from the breast pocket of his jacket and slipping them on before he stopped by her table.

"And what would Madame care for this evening?" he asked, but Molly made no attempt to look at the man beside her. Instead, she sighed lightly.

"That's a terrible accent, and you're far too overdressed to be a real waiter."

Sherlock gave an amused chuckle, turning to catch his reflection in the window. She'd seen him coming from a mile away. Clever. Though perhaps the glasses were a _bit_ much. Removing them, he dropped them on a nearby table and made to park himself opposite her.

"What are you doing?" He was pleased to hear a slice of tension run through her voice. Sherlock paused, tilting his head a little.

"Sitting." He settled back into the chair and widened his grin. "Problem?"

"Yes, actually." Molly crossed her arms over her chest and watched as Sherlock, still grinning, made to undo the elaborate bow tie at his neck. She shook her head in disbelief.

"You—"

"I received your letter, by the way." He tucked the bow tie into his trouser pocket and folded down his collar. "Wording was a bit dry."

A hidden smile pushed at the edges of her mouth, but she swiftly swallowed it back, and her expression was once more a glare.

"Divorce papers are like that."

"Mm. Interesting choice of accommodation though – Las Vegas. Bit flashy for you, isn't it? And you're not a gambler."

"Unlike you."

"I never gamble."

Her jaw tightened a little and she reached up to fiddle at her bun. She let out a steadying breath. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

"In a word? You."

She blinked, apparently taken aback by his statement. Yet any surprise she gave was quickly washed away with another shake of her head.

"No. Sherlock, you can't just… _do_ this. You can't come to Las Vegas, fresh out of prison, and attempt to claim me like I'm some kind of prize. There's a reason why I moved away from Baker Street."

Sherlock gave a shrug. "I'm not trying to claim you, Molly."

"Funny, because it looks like it." She let her gaze drop from his, and sipped again at her wine.

* * *

The clock ticked towards midnight. He barely heard the bedroom door open. She was always often so quiet, in that special way of hers; quiet, and yet steadfast in her loyalty, and always so perceptive. He felt her presence though. Like a live wire, he felt it, a current of electricity prickling against his skin.

"Hello." Her voice was soft, understanding. Through his eyelashes, he looked at her, scanning her. With her hair down, her form wrapped in his tartan dressing gown, the paleness of her skin provided a tantalising idea of what was underneath. Sighing lightly, she drew her hair through her curls before she let her hand touch against his, the pads of her fingers drawing against his warm palm. Her deep, hypnotic brown eyes were warm with her concern.

"Is everything okay? You've been in that mind palace of yours for hours."

"That doesn't mean to say anything's wrong," Sherlock said, turning her hand over with his to caress lightly at her wrist with his thumb. In this particular light, her wedding ring appeared to shine. She herself, his wife of three years, appeared particularly beautiful. He smiled up at her. "But I wonder about you. Are you – alright?"

She wrinkled her nose a little at him. "I'm fine."

His smile widened and his grip tightened a little around her wrist and he felt himself give a low laugh as a gasp of surprise escaped her when he quickly drew her onto his lap, reaching up to cup at her back, holding her close as his fingers touched at the nape of her neck. He leaned forward, nuzzling his nose against his cheek, pressing his mouth to her cheek.

"You need to watch that tell," he murmured, his voice warm against her ear. Feeling her curl closer to him, he settled back into his chair and stroked gently at the curls of her hair.

"I'm worried about you," she said, her voice quiet and she curled tighter against him, her hands winding their way around his shoulders as she stared up at him and he gave a small smile, cupping at her cheek with his other hand, slowly drawing his thumb against her bottom lip.

"You have no need to be."

A smile stretched against her mouth. "You're sure?"

"Of course." His gaze flicked over her form. "You look particularly lovely in that dressing gown by the way."

"Do I?"

He answered by reaching forward and capturing her mouth with his. She responded with an innate instinct, drawing closer to him with a gasp as she touched her fingers against his neck, her hair falling over her shoulders. Her scent, a mixture of lemons and rosemary, the cool silk of the dressing gown matched against the warmth of her skin; everything about her threatened to overwhelm him and his head swam with the luxury of her.

She was the one to break the kiss, but her smile was wide and welcoming. Her gaze stayed on him, her features softened with her desire for him, as she unfurled herself from his embrace and stood. Her smile growing, she proffered a hand.

"Come to bed." Not a command, not a question, but an invitation. One that he was more than willing to accept. Rising from his chair, he slipped his hand into hers and allowed her to lead him towards their bedroom.

* * *

If it was possible, she looked even lovelier like this. There were many reasons for it, all as devastating as the last. The morning sunrise was one. It revelled in her, bathing her skin in a cool orange, an almost golden, light as she slept, her limbs tangled among the bed sheets. Sweat glistened on her brow. Her hair, he noted as he ran his hand over it, was damp. It had been a warm night; not helped by their activities, certainly. It was practically a miracle, and definitely a relief, that she now slept so soundly. After dressing, he pressed his lips to her forehead and only allowed himself the briefest of moments to linger, his hand just barely touching against her shoulder, twining against the curls of her hair before he straightened up, brushed himself down, tilted his head just slightly and silently made his way out of 221b and down the stairs.

He only came to a pause in the hallway, where he let out a breath, shut his eyes and tipped his head gently back against the wall. The familiar click of Mrs Hudson's door sounded, and she duly appeared, with a bin bag in her hands.

"Oh, Sherlock. You're up. Pretty early for you, isn't it?"

In spite of himself, he smiled and rolled his head, opening his eyes to arch an eyebrow at her. "Be best if you went back inside your flat, Mrs Hudson."

She obeyed with little protestation, but with her gaze lowered, the realisation for her tenant's behaviour clear in her hunched shoulders and the silence with which she locked her door behind her and switched off her lights.

A knock, rapid against the front door, sounded and Sherlock stepped forward, swiftly opening the door. A bureaucratic man, short and stout, with a wide and distinctly pleased smirk, nodded once at him.

"Mr Holmes, I am arrest—"

"Keep it down," Sherlock drawled. His grip against the doorknob tightened. "My wife is asleep upstairs."

The detective inspector snorted and merrily continued. "I am arresting on you on suspicion of theft and the handling of stolen goods. You do not have to say anything…"

He listened to the rest of the spiel, but his thoughts wandered, as they were wont to do, his fingertips tingling with the sensation of her skin, her words—so full of love—echoing in his mind. The snap of handcuffs around his wrists brought him back to the reality, and he let himself be steered out of 221b and onto the pavement. Behind him, the door slammed.

* * *

Molly jerked awake to darkness and a hollow space in the bed where once her husband had been.

"Sherlock?" No reply. Her stomach dropped. Pushing the bed sheets away from her naked body, she scooped the discarded dressing gown—still warm from his touch—up off the floor and wrapped it against her body as she ran out of the bedroom. Lights, flashing blue and white, filled the expanse of the windows and her throat ran dry.

Tugging at the soft lace curtains, she felt her heart plummet as she witnessed a sight she had always feared to see. Her husband, with his head bent forward, allowing himself to be walked towards a police car. As he slid easily into the passenger seat, he flicked his eyes up. They locked with hers, but only briefly before the passenger door was swung shut and Molly Hooper was left alone.

* * *

"Your ring finger's bare." Sherlock spoke against her silence. He shifted forward, his eyes still focused on her. He nodded to a thin silver chain, loose around her neck. "But your neck isn't. I wonder why that is."

Her fingers gently touched at the chain, but only for a brief moment before she let out a steadying breath and tucked her elbows against the table and her hands under her chin.

"Molly." Her gaze shot up to meet his. "Do you remember what I told you?"

"That I was the only one who truly mattered?" She gave a short, scornful laugh. "Yes, I remember that perfectly clearly. But I have had some trouble believing it."

"You shouldn't."

"Okay. I'll try to remember that next time you go to jail without saying goodbye."

"There won't be a next time."

That same tentative smile touched at her mouth, only for her to brush it away once again. The sigh she gave was resigned.

"I'm with Jim now. I'm happy."

"You're happy with him?"

"I'm happy I'm with him." Her reply was cold, sharp, rehearsed. Sherlock's smile flicked up. There it as: an ever so slight crinkle of brow.

"You need to watch that tell."

She considered him and his response before she leaned forward. Whatever it was she had to say was cut off by an intruder to their conversation.

"Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?" Moriarty's voice was a smooth veneer of charm. Molly sat back and Sherlock stood, replying as he did so.

"Yes – just having a small catch-up."

"Hm. There aren't many men who would voluntarily talk with their ex-wife."

Sherlock touched at his finger, carefully pressing his fingers against the silver and black ring that remained there. "Perhaps that says something about me."

There was no response from either Molly or Moriarty to his statement, but it was hard to miss the decisive cooling of Moriarty's expression. His smile stretched wider.

"Seeing as you were so busy catching up – maybe you'd like a drink?"

"No," Molly said, shaking her head a little. "I mean, it's very sweet of you Jim, to offer, but – well – Sherlock's far too busy. Aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Far too busy. It's why I stopped to talk to Molly, actually. Because you know – missed opportunities and everything. But I'll leave you to your dinner. Goodnight."

He flashed a small, polite smile at Moriarty, not missing the way in which Molly leaned, instinctively, into his touch as he lightly pressed his palm against her shoulder in a quiet gesture of goodbye.

What he didn't, however, notice was Mary Morstan silently watching him as he swiftly made his way from the restaurant.


	9. Problems and Solutions

Having commandeered one of the many rooms in the suite as his makeshift lab, and with his mountains of equipment piled around him, Lestrade hummed quietly as he worked to assemble together the delicate package Mrs Hudson had so artfully negotiated to be placed deep inside the vault. While the emeralds themselves were just sheer rocks of green glass, it was how they were to be used that made them so incredibly valuable.

On the television, the rolling news played, detailing the old casino that was soon to be demolished to make way for "a premium chain hotel and leisure centre", according to the news reporter, who was some fresh-faced young man in a suit two times too big for him. Lestrade rolled his eyes as the news reporter gleefully chattered about how he had somehow managed to obtain an interview with the great James Moriarty himself.

Lestrade scoffed. He had met all kinds of people in his line of work, but he doubted he had ever encountered—or would ever encounter—someone like Moriarty who had such a cover of deception about them. Finished with the first emerald, he made to insert it into the black suitcase beside him—or he would have, if the lights had not flickered and the television had not immediately switched off, and left the room in complete darkness. Lestrade paused, the emerald still clutched in his fingers.

"Fuck."

* * *

Blissfully unaware of any troubles faced by Lestrade, the rest of the group were gathered in the warehouse.

"Right, so much of tomorrow is free, for all of you." Sherlock stepped up, facing the group as he began to relay the plan. "You can do what you like. For some of you, that may include being attached to a computer all day, or for others, it'll include wandering aimlessly around Las Vegas until 5:30, when you'll be called in for makeup and costume. Mrs Hudson's package arrives at 7:05, at which point Mary will grab the codes that we need. Barring any mistakes, we'll be pretty much ready to go."

Behind him, the doors to the rehearsal vault opened. Sherlock continued. "It's at 7:30 that Soo Lin will be locked into the trolley cart, and from that point on – there's really no going back. We'll have 30 minutes in order to switch off Las Vegas, or Soo Lin will suffocate and die – but that's a worst case scenario."

The group watched as Gary, dressed in a guard's uniform, silently pushed a trolley cart into the vault and left it in the centre, alongside three other similar trolley carts before he turned and made his departure. Only after a few moments did the lid of the fourth trolley cart pop open and Soo Lin, her hair wrapped into a tight bun and dressed in a black one suit, expertly wriggled out, the effort of such an act not apparent in either her expression or her posture.

"Once the electricity is gone," Sherlock said, "all access points to the vault and the elevator will shut down for two minutes, exactly – and that two minutes is our time to move. Now, Soo Lin is currently in the middle of the room. How far away?"

"About 10 feet," Soo Lin answered, looking around the fake vault and muttering a little under her breath as she calculated.

"Mm. She now has to get to the door without activating any of the lasers or sensors. In essence, she cannot touch the floor. Much like that lava game any of you might have played when you were younger."

Gesturing for Soo Lin to continue, Sherlock moved back towards the group. In the vault, she stood to a crouch and took a slow breath. Mutters of bets were made but soon silenced as she jumped up and executed a perfect back flip. She landed squarely on a set of shelves, grinning at the impressed silence that followed her feat.

Wet, sloppy footsteps broke said silence. As one, the group turned to see Lestrade make his way towards them. Gagging, Mary's hands flew to her face.

"What the _hell_ happened to you?!"

The reason for her shock was clear. Lestrade's hair, face and clothes were deeply encrusted with the dark brown colour of dry sewage. He gave a somewhat sardonic grin.

"Yeah. We're pretty much up to our knees in shit."

Sherlock frowned. "Why, exactly?"

Drawing up a chair, Lestrade sank into it, peeling his sewage-ridden shirt from his body. He glanced about the group.

"Has anyone got a towel?" John silently handed a pile of them over, and Lestrade took them, beginning to rub vigorously at his arms. "Okay, here's the deal: Mycroft's casino was blown up today, right? Right. That led to a power cut. So I went down there to check it out. Unfortunately, I found out that those idiots who dare to call themselves a demolition crew didn't back up the main line."

"Does anyone understand a single word of this?" Mycroft asked, sniffing slightly and pinching at his nose in deep offence at the smell that hit his nostrils.

"I'll explain later," Wiggins remarked. Lestrade continued.

"So, because of their mistake, they messed up the mainframe and went and blew up the backup grids one by one!" Lestrade sighed and bent forward, rubbing at his hair. "Arseholes."

"So?" Billy asked. "What's the problem?"

"They did what I was planning to do," Lestrade replied, sitting up. "Only they did it by accident."

"So they know their weakness?" Sherlock said.

"Pretty much – and now they're fixing it. Ergo, the job can't be done. Not if any of you lot want to succeed anyway."

Sherlock's mouth thinned. That did put a spanner in the works. He looked to John, but all John could do was minutely shrug.

"Is there no other way to do it?" Soo Lin asked, stepping forward. Lestrade began to shake his head, but then started to nod in thought.

"Perhaps..." He slammed his hand against his knee triumphantly, grinning. "Got it! We could use a pinch!" Even when faced with blank stares at his declaration, Lestrade's excitement did not wane. In fact, on finding out that he knew something the others did not know, his joy seemed to inflate and he gave a laugh. "Please tell me you know what a pinch is!"

"Evidently not," Mycroft said tightly.

"Right, well, a pinch is a bomb, pretty much. Well, a bomb without the destruction. It's a device that holds pretty much the same electromagnetic pulse as a nuclear bomb – if there was one big enough, we could wipe out Las Vegas."

"For how long?" Sherlock asked.

"30 seconds is the maximum."

"And is there one big enough?"

"One big enough to shut down Las Vegas?" Lestrade's widening, elated grin indicated his answer. "Yeah, there is – but it's in California."

Sherlock smiled. "Not a problem. Mycroft?"

Mycroft didn't answer. He was already on the phone.

* * *

When planning to steal from the California Institute of Advanced Science, having a brother with a private plane and access to a large enough van to store an electromagnetic bomb proved useful indeed. With Gary at the wheel, they arrived in quick enough time and the doors to the van were thrown open and the group filed out. Yet when Mary attempted to step out, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"You're not going in," Sherlock ordered. "You're staying here."

"What, with—?" Mary gestured towards Gary and Billy—who, after bickering over who got to drive the group to the institute, were steadfastly ignoring one another—and shook her head. "No, come on, you can't."

"Those two will spend all their time bickering – I need you on lookout."

Turning to head into the building, Sherlock didn't give her time to argue and with a huff, Mary shut the van doors and sat down. The dullness of the silence seemed to drill into her skull.

"I could have got us here in half the time you did," Billy muttered petulantly, to which Gary scoffed and Mary rolled her eyes.

"No you couldn't. I'm the better driver out of the two of us, you know I am."

"Yes I could. And you're not – _I_ am."

"Then why did they let me drive and not you?"

"They only let you drive because I drove last time, so—"

"_Oh my God!_" Gary and Billy both whipped around at Mary's outburst. She looked to the pair of them. "Is this how you live every day of your lives – just bickering, every hour of every day?"

Billy shifted a little in his seat. "A little bit."

"Then how can you _hope_ to communicate properly? Maybe, you just have to think before you speak – the pair of you." She may not have thought she would spend the night before the big heist holding an amateur counselling session, but there she was anyway. "Sure, you may disagree on some things, but you have to learn to compromise. That's, really, what marriage is about. No-one is perfect, and we all have our little foibles that irritate. That doesn't make those flaws bad – really, they're just part of the whole package. Why else would you have married each other?"

The two men stared at her, agape, blinking as they took in what she had said. They looked to one another. Their gazes softened.

"I'm sorry. I love you Gary."

"No, _I'm_ sorry – I love you too."

Almost immediately they crashed together, embracing one another as they began to kiss. The van doors opened and Mary jumped out, helping the rest of the group load the stolen pinch device into the back of the van before they all climbed in, where Gary and Billy were still wrapped up in their reunion. Sherlock loudly cleared his throat.

"Whilst this is very lovely,"—akin to a pair of teenagers, Gary and Billy jumped apart on hearing Sherlock's voice—"we do need to get going."

"Understood," Gary said, smiling. Quickly, he started the van and drove off.

* * *

Choosing to drive back, the group returned to Las Vegas during the earlier stages of the afternoon. On stepping into the hotel suite though, they did not receive the welcome that had been expected. Instead, Wiggins held out a piece of paper to Sherlock.

"Well done Mr 'olmes – you've been red-flagged."

Sherlock took the paper from Wiggins' fingers and momentarily scanned it. On it was the standard: a picture, along with his name and his criminal record. He dropped it onto the table, shaking his head.

"Irrelevant."

"Not totally irrelevant," Wiggins remarked, eyeing him as he gradually began to pace. "The moment you set foot in that casino, all eyes and all cameras are going to be trained on you."

John sank into the opposite sofa. "You went to see Molly. Didn't you?"

Sherlock lowered his head. "No."

"He's lying," Mary said, stood in the doorway. "You went to see her in the casino restaurant two days ago."

Sherlock came to a halt, looking to John. "You had her tail me."

"Yes I did." John had the temerity to appear slightly smug at such an act of ingenuity on his part. Or perhaps he was just seething. It was difficult to tell. He pointed to Sherlock. "Because I knew you couldn't leave her alone."

"Leave who alone?" Martha asked, choosing at that moment to wander into the lounge.

"Molly," Mary told her. Martha blinked, staring at Sherlock.

"Molly? She's here? Why is she in Las Vegas of all places?"

"She's dating Moriarty," Mary said.

"Mm." John tapped at his knee. "Sherlock, you're out."

The blunt shock of the statement rippled over the people all stood within the room. Sherlock shook his head, stepping towards John. "You can't do that," he said evenly. "This is my job, John. I decide who is or out."

"And you made that decision when you visited Molly."

Sherlock bit at his lip, but couldn't say anything. He stepped back. John's logic was, unfortunately, sound. Seeking out Molly and speaking with Moriarty had made him far too high a risk. He couldn't trigger the vault now, not even in disguise. He had made himself far too memorable to do so. Folding his arms over his chest, he brushed his finger against his bottom lip.

"Mary." He glanced to her. "How do you feel about triggering the vault?"

"I suppose I could do it," she replied, avoiding his gaze and looking instead to the carpet. Martha frowned, nonplussed by the change of plans, but confused by something else entirely.

"Molly is with Moriarty?" she said quietly. "I never expected her to be – well, that sort of girl."

Sherlock glared. "She isn't."


	10. The Heist: Act One

She was practically invisible. Stood in front of him, in the hotel suite, swathed in the plain clothes of an official with a briefcase in her hands; she was quick to spot, but easy to forget. Rolling her shoulders, she scratched at her temple. John smirked.

"Nervous?"

Mary laughed gently. "Oh, just a – just a little bit."

John shook his head, moving forward.

"No need." He pressed a hand against her shoulder in comfort. "I've got every faith in you."

* * *

_Welcome to the MGM Grand's Garden arena, the place where celebrities and sports fans alike are piling into in order to witness two heavyweight champions fight it out tonight, on this perfectly clear night in Las Vegas, to become the ultimate boxing champion. This fight will take place after an eight month dance between the two…_

The silken evening dress was laid out on the bed, nestled within the soft tissue paper of the box. Brand new, it had been bought especially for this very night, no expenses paid. For the companion of James Moriarty, people were willing to do anything.

Molly sat at her dresser and silently prepared herself for the evening ahead. For her to say that her meeting with her ex-husband had come as a shock was an understatement; but for her to deny that said meeting hadn't been rolling around inside her mind since then, well, that would've been a lie. Even now, it preyed on her. Or more, the feelings that had sprung up as a result of the meeting still preyed on her. Having him in prison had made it easy to believe that she had grown indifferent towards him. Having him sit directly opposite her, with that smirk lighting up his eyes and smart remarks tripping off his tongue had proved that theory entirely wrong. Every feeling—every memory—that she had tampered down to a dulled, passing thought at the back of her mind now reared up at her, bright and sharp and clear.

The television reporter updated their audience on the importance of tonight's fight, but Molly paid little attention to it, pulling open her dresser's drawer. A locket, it was an antique, crafted from pure silver. No expense had been spared in the purchase of it. She picked it up and felt the weight of it. Light enough to wear for an evening, but heavy enough to remind her of its presence.

She barely felt herself fiddling with the chain around her neck until a familiar glint of gold flashed up against her reflection. Molly swallowed. Dropping the locket back into the drawer, she shut it closed.

* * *

Brushing dust away from her jacket, Martha stood at the entrance to the casino.

"Mrs Zerga—" Moriarty stepped up towards her. "Any chance you could hurry this up? I'm on a rather tight schedule."

"The courier will be here,"—she made a subtle gesture of checking her watch as she spoke—"momentarily, Mr Moriarty. In fact, he should be arriving… now."

Duly, a black saloon car rounded the corner and pulled up to the sidewalk. A remarkably silent Gary got out, the suitcase handcuffed to his wrist and clad in a dark suit. Both he and Billy were blank in their expressions, only exchanging a few rough sentences of German before the suitcase was handed over to her. She directed only a brief nod of the head towards Moriarty before she allowed the man in question to lead her into the casino, towards the casino doors.

Being a fight night, the floor itself was as busy as Sherlock had predicted, if perhaps not more so. It was little wonder why Moriarty was so on edge. The four of them weaved their way through the crowds, passing easily through the tables where Mike Stamford handily dealt out blackjack to eager players. They continued on past the slots and Martha swallowed a smile when she saw Sherlock sitting there, as bold as brass, in the middle of them, directly catching Moriarty's eye. Moriarty didn't react via any twitch or glare, but via by a simple beckoning gesture, to which a member of the floor staff quickly responded, practically gliding towards Moriarty's side.

"I believe I banned Mr Holmes from this particular casino," he said and he gave a light nod in the direction of the slots. The casino guard muttered an "immediately sir" and promptly doubled back into the crowds.

Moriarty focused on her. "You realise I can't have your bodyguards in the casino cages?"

"Of course—"

"Martha!" She swallowed the urge to roll her eyes as their group ground to a halt and turned to find an overly tanned elderly gentleman, far too reliant on hair dye, make his way towards them. "Don't you remember me?"

He grinned widely. "Scatman! From Florida!"

Frank _Scatman_ DuBois. An old colleague, she had never liked him when they first worked together, and she wasn't too inclined to like him at this particular moment either. Frank stepped forward, but she only crossed her hands and blinked, picture perfectly impassive. Frank's stare flicked towards Moriarty and scanned him. He gave a quick laugh, retreating back with his arms up in the air.

"No, wait – my mistake. Guess we all make 'em sometime, huh?"

She eyed him coolly. "Don't make that mistake again."

Throwing out another apology, he turned and walked away. She looked back to Moriarty. Thanks to Frank Scatman DuBois, the sell had swiftly switched from easy to hard. Every movement, every word was precious, as if she were navigating her way across a heavily armed minefield. So she sighed.

"Americans. Shall we, Mr Moriarty?"

"Yes," he said, considering her. "Might as well."

* * *

With the utmost care and attention, his brow slightly creased, Moriarty ran his fingertips across the fabric of the suitcase until, satisfied, he nodded and stepped back. Martha slid the jewels back into place and he spoke.

"I'm happy enough to allow your jewels to be stored in my vault, but—"

The door to the inspection room opened and a tall man entered, circling around the table to stand at Moriarty's side. Glancing over Martha, he leaned towards Moriarty.

"There's two plainclothes on Holmes," he whispered. Moriarty gave a nod, dismissing the information with a wave of his hand. Shutting the suitcase, he pushed it towards the man.

"Moran, have this put this in the vault – Mrs Zerga, you can watch from the security centre."

"Part of your insurance policy?"

"Mostly that, yes. But there's also the fact that I don't really trust you."

Martha smiled. The fish was baited. Now all they had to do was catch it.

* * *

Mary let out a breath, touching at her temple. The ID badge, tucked in the inside of her jacket, felt more like an iron weight than anything else.

"Don't fidget," Wiggins instructed. His voice sounded tinny against her ear. "Pinch is all loaded up and Soo Lin's getting ready – and don't worry. You'll be fine. Of course, if you're not, you'll blow all our covers and we'll all end up in jail. No pressure."

Mary bit any clever remark. If anything was going to blow her cover, it would've been Moriarty finding her engaged in a heated exchange of words with her own earpiece. Instead, she gulped and continued to watch the casino cage doors. They soon opened, and the man of the hour, James Moriarty, quickly walked out. He was glaring, consistently checking at his watch, so no doubt Martha had done her job, and done it well. Now she just had to do hers.

"Hi – James Moriarty?"

"What is it?"

Falling into step with him, she retrieved the ID badge and flipped it open. "Sarah Willis," she said, her voice tinged with the sound of a sweet, soft American accent. "Nevada Gaming Commission. I need a few minutes of your time – if that's okay."

"As long as you're fast and don't waste my time," Moriarty said. His tone was tight.

"I'll try not to, sir," Mary said hurriedly. "Now, if you could follow me to pit five?"

It was really quite remarkable, the machine of the long con. If developed and maintained well, every little cog of that particular machine had its place, and every part did its job. Sat at the bar, Sherlock took a gulp of his drink. Mary, pushing her glasses up her nose, continued to walk with Moriarty. True, nepotism had played a part in his selection of her for this job but for a pickpocket, she was a natural. No wonder John had felt such a strong attraction to her in so short a time.

Wryly, Sherlock smiled and downed the rest of his drink. His attention was taken when he glimpsed another patron of the casino, striding across the floor. She was lost in thought, relying on her memory to take her to her destination. Pulling at his collar, Sherlock got to his feet and followed.

* * *

"You remember when to make the deposit, don't you? You make the deposit at—"

"At your signal – yes, we remember." Billy sighed, flipped open the lid to the cash cart. "I do have some brain power, you know."

Wrapping her hair into a tight bun, Soo Lin rolled her eyes. "And yet you use most of it bickering with your husband."

Not leaving a chance for Billy to retort, she stepped forward and positioned herself against the cash cart, easily folding herself in. John arched an eyebrow.

"Wow." Handing her an oxygen canister, he shut the lid. "30 minutes of breathing time starts now."

"Are you sure she'll be able to handle it for that long? Surely it'll get boring," Wiggins mused. "Perhaps we should've given her a magazine or something."

A muffled call of "fuck off" acted as Soo Lin's reply.

* * *

"This only came to our attention this morning." A little way off, a member of the floor staff quietly tapped at Mike Stamford's arm. Absentmindedly, Mary scratched at the inside of her ear. "He's apparently got a huge record – both here in the States and, uh, other countries."

"Mm. How long have you been at the Commission, by the way?"

"Oh, um, just under a year," Mary replied. "I'm still the new girl."

Mike, appearing suitably confused, approached them. "What's this about? It's just – I've got a shift…"

"Stephen Matthews, I'm with the Nevada Gaming Commission. It's come to our attention—"

Moriarty cleared his throat. "Miss Willis?"

"Yes?"

"You may be new to this business, but this sort of talk is usually done off of the floor."

Mary nodded, apologetic. "I'm so sorry. Of course."

Without any protest from either of them, she and Mike Stamford quietly fell into step behind Moriarty, heading towards the casino cages. Behind them, the lift doors pulled open, but no-one paid heed to the two staff members who left it. They only began to pay heed when they reached the cage doors. The taller of the two paled, patting at and delving into his pockets, searching. The shorter narrowed his eyes, but soon sighed in realisation.

"You always do this, every time…"

"No I don't!" his companion snapped. "_Despite_ what you think, I'm not stupid!"

"Well no-one clever would leave behind their card, now would they?"

"You take that back!"

A guard anxiously stepped forward, touching at the two's arms. "Hey guys – cool down a minute, yeah? We don't want to cause a scene."

The taller quietened. "I know, I'm sorry—"

"Don't worry about it." The guard tapped at the cash cart. "What is this stuff anyway?"

"Oh, it's from the high roller's room," the shorter of the pair said. "It's all Mr Moriarty's money – and we'd be able to deliver it, _if someone hadn't forgotten their card._"

The guard frowned, but nodded all the same. "Okay. I'll get Joe to take it inside for you." He turned towards his colleague as the pair mumbled thanks and turned to leave. Neither of the guards saw the smirk on either Gary or Billy's faces when they strolled away.

* * *

She saw him before he saw her. Immediately, she was out of the chair, and she stormed towards him to grab him by the arm and steer him around, back outside the restaurant's entrance.

"I can't believe you—" Cheeks flushed, breathing heavy, her eyes were almost ablaze with her anger. "Sherlock, please, just – leave. I told you—"

"Molly, Molly." He touched gently at her forearm. "What exactly do you think I'm doing here?"

She turned her head away, but he made no attempt to catch or keep her attention. His sigh was soft, and he leaned forward, his touch falling away from her arm.

"I hope you'll be very happy." The genuine nature of his words would've been a surprise to anyone who might've been witness to the scene, but not doubted. He pressed his lips to her cheek in a painfully chaste kiss. "You deserve it."

Before she could say a word, he was gone.

A short distance away, the two bodyguards stood. Sherlock grinned, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stopped directly in front of them. One of them just about managed a polite nod of greeting.

"Moriarty wants to speak with you."

Sherlock brushed at his jacket, tugging at the hem. "I'm sure he does."


	11. The Heist: Act Two

Wrapping a tie around his neck, John watched Mary on the monitor. In an interview room, she made a show of looking through the folder in her hands, her features sunk into a frown. The standard, forgettable pose of an official. Moriarty stood off to the side, observing her every move.

"Stephen Willis – or otherwise known as Mike Stamford." She flicked through a set of entirely irrelevant papers. "You're quite prolific, in the gambling world. Is this why you changed your name?"

"I made a few mistakes, yes." Mike laughed uncomfortably. "But does that really necessitate – all this?"

"Well… you are a criminal, Mr Stamford, so yes."

"But I'm not a criminal anymore," Mike insisted, shifting in his seat. Even on the grainy image of the camera monitor, the growing tension in his shoulders, his whole body, was clear to see. "Surely I've earned the right to earn a living? Or are all criminals irredeemable in the eyes of the NGC?"

Mary came to a stop. "What exactly are you implying, Mr Stamford?"

"I'm saying that the NGC doesn't give ex-criminals like me a second chance. You'd rather we all – lived on the streets, as penitence for our past lives!"

"That is a ridiculous accusation, Mr Stamford—"

"My name is Stephen Willis!" Mike said hotly, jumping to his feet and advancing forward. Mary doubled back as Moriarty finally stepped forward, his full attention fixed on Mike. If the footage on the monitor was anything to by, he barely felt Mary, in the midst of the slight scuffle, slip the codes out of his pocket and into her own.

Sitting back on the sofa, John cocked a smile. "I knew she could do it."

"She could blink and you'd praise her," Wiggins muttered, still watching the screen where Moriarty, eyes flashing, had gripped hard at Mike's shoulder.

"Sit down, _Mr Stamford._ Because it doesn't matter what name you go by – you are never setting foot in my casino again. Do you understand me?"

Mike nodded, meek once again. Wiggins chuckled and looked to the other screen. There was a live feed to the security centre, where Mrs Hudson stood with Moran by her side. Sweat was slick on her forehead and her temple. Moran, as yet unaware of the trouble faced by her, continued to talk her through the process of her suitcase being taken down to the vault, but Martha was barely listening. Wiping at her brow, she swallowed a pill.

"That's my cue." John shrugged on a suit jacket and made to leave. "Contact Lestrade, tell him we're nearly ready."

Wiggins leaned forward, speaking into his microphone. "Lestrade? Where are you? We need a status update, mate."

There was a crackle of feedback, followed by a sigh and the sounds of passing traffic. "Yeah, yeah – nearly there."

"How long is 'nearly there'?"

"I'm turning in now."

* * *

Coming up to ten minutes, and still no sign of James Moriarty. Meanwhile, Sherlock still had to wait in a room void of cameras. Apparently the man was determined to burn quite a large hole into his evening schedule.

"It must be a busy night for him," he suggested. Something resembling puzzlement crossed one of the bodyguards' faces. "With the fight."

He eyed the two silent bodyguards in front of him. "Someone's coming, if the looks are anything to go by. But it isn't Moriarty. Is it?"

A large loud knock sounded on the door. One of the bodyguards opened it, and a man stepped inside, stooping underneath the frame of the doorway. The second bodyguard smirked and, along with his colleague, made a discreet departure.

Sherlock barely managed to get to his feet before the first punch was landed, sending him stumbling back.

"Jesus!" he hissed, clutching at his jaw. He directed a remonstrating scowl at the man in front of him. "Bruiser, did your mother never teach you about _patience?_"

"Oh, I forgot—"

"We'll just call it you getting your eye in." Sherlock climbed onto a worktop, and pushed up at the vent above. He was about to climb through when he looked back to Bruiser. "By the way, say congratulations to your wife. She's pregnant."

"_Again?_"

"Mm-hm. I can always tell an expectant father. It's the exhaustion." Leaving Bruiser with the news that he was about to become a father for the fifth (or sixth, it was hard to keep track) time, Sherlock began his climb.

* * *

"I mean, she told me 11, right – but c'mon, I work in a casino, the earliest I can get away is, like, way early in the morning during the slow hours, you know? But she keeps nagging and going on at me—"

Soo Lin resisted the urge to grind her teeth and concentrated on breathing. For most of the way, she'd had to endure such charming chatter as what she now listened to, and more than once, she had yearned for the bickering of the Talkative Twosome, Gary and Billy. At least they injected some variety into their arguments. This man and his wife just seemed to be obsessed with times of day.

Mercifully, the conversation ceased on entering into the vault, only to be replaced by another trouble. A trouble that was signified with a thud, directly above her. Hesitantly, she reached up and pressed at the lid. Sure enough, the weight of the suitcase pressed down upon it.

Very quietly, under her breath, Soo Lin swore.

Martha knew the problem as soon as she saw on the monitor the idiot of a security guard, his attention wrapped up in his colleague's enthralling tale, set the suitcase down atop of the very unit Soo Lin had stored herself. She again wiped sweat from her brow and again swallowed a pill, but it had little to no effect. On another monitor, the sight of Mary Morstan loomed into view, heading quickly down a corridor. A security guard, far too quick on his feet, peered at the screen.

"Who's she? Hey, we got a bogey in the west—"

"Mrs Zerga!" Every last person's attention was drawn away from the screens by the sight of Mrs Zerga, German widow and prominent arms dealer, fainting dead away onto the floor.

As the staff, eager not to be sued by Mrs Zerga or any of her associates, scrambled to attend to her distress, Mary tapped in the codes and watched as the lift doors slid open and stepped open. In her ear, she heard Wiggins chuckle.

"Good work, Miss Morstan. We're switching to video… _now._" On the last word, Mary began to move. Shifting towards the corner of the lift, she jumped up and opened up a latch in the roof, only to be met with the most arrogant grin she had ever seen in her life.

"Bloody hell!" she yelped, bracing herself against the walls of the lift. "You could've warned me!"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Or did you just not trust me?"

"Had to make sure," Sherlock answered and he held out a hand. Mary eyed it warily, but Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

"If it helps, you've more than proved yourself."

Smiling, Mary took his hand.

Back on the main floor, John Watson strode up to the casino cage doors, carrying a medical bag with one hand and adjusting his tie with another. He came to a halt.

"Did someone call for a doctor at all?"

* * *

Mary tightened the rappelling line around her waist, testing it. "So why didn't you just tell me? Instead of going through that whole rigmarole of having me tail you and everything? Telling me would've made things much easier."

"True," Sherlock said. "But John had a lot of faith in you, almost from the get go. I just wanted to make sure that faith wasn't misplaced. He's very loyal, very quickly after all."

"As am I," Mary retorted. The pair of them began their slow climb down the side of the lift. "What, did you think I was going to betray you or something? You know – tip off the police about your plans."

"No, you're not stupid enough for that. I had to trust you were good enough to complete the job; that was all."

"Still, an incredible risk to take."

"Doesn't make things half fun though," Sherlock said with another grin, getting into position over the glowing red of the motion sensors below. With the pair of them poised to drop, Sherlock tapped at his earpiece.

"Wiggins? Ready."

At the same time, John, Gary and Billy wheeled a recently deceased Simone Zerga out of the casino on a gurney. John tapped at his own earpiece.

"Ready."

"Lestrade, we're set."

"Yeah, in a minute," came Lestrade's distracted reply.

"Soo Lin's going to suffocate soon, mate – you don't _have_ a minute."

"Alright, alright," Greg sighed. Making a grab for the detonator, he pushed the pinch bomb back into the confines of the van and stepped back. Looking over the glowing green of the bomb situated in the back of the van, he took one more step back for luck. His thumb hovered over the button. "Broke, blind and bedlam in 3, 2… _1._"

Just as the first punch of the most important fight of the season was about to land, Greg pressed the detonator. Las Vegas fell into darkness.

* * *

One by one, in quick succession, the red beams of the infrared sensors flickered off. Delving into his pocket, Sherlock retrieved a series of glow sticks, cracked them and dropped them. They fell freely down the shaft, the sound of their descent echoing. Mary glanced to Sherlock.

"Down?"

"Down."

Together, they fell, abseiling, down the elevator shaft, stopping with a groan as the rappel lines came to their end. It was a good ten foot drop to the bottom.

"Cut the rope," Sherlock ordered. "They'll reel back automatically."

Without question, she obeyed and they landed on the bottom of the elevator shaft with a definite _thump._ Above them, the red of the sensors returned. Thirty seconds precisely. It seemed that Greg Lestrade could indeed achieve something.

"Now just the guards to go," he said with a groan, clambering to his feet. He looked to Mary. "Where's the gas pellet?"

"Here." She pressed the gas pellet into his palm and they pulled open the elevator doors. As expected, three guards stood there, engaged in easy chatter, with their fingers ghosted over the guns strapped to their sides. Sliding the gas pellet across the floor, Sherlock let the elevator doors slid closed. First thud came quickly enough, soon followed by the second, and finally, the third.

After that, the procedure was simple. Soon enough, the three guards were tied up, unconscious and the codes were punched in and the door was sliding open to reveal the entrance to the vault.

"So, where are we at then?" Lestrade asked, casually strolling into the hotel room, a bag of crisps in hand, to sit by Wiggins, who smirked.

"Well, as of now, there's pandemonium on the main floor and I'm guessing it's much the same in the Garden Arena,"—Lestrade's grin widened on witnessing the effects of his work—"and Sherlock's about to breach the vault with Mary."

"Great." Lestrade propped his legs up on the table. Wiggins chose not to make a comment. They were, after all, about to steal 160 million dollars. He wasn't about to complain about a small breach of etiquette in the circumstances. "Things are going smoothly then."

The same attitude could not be shared by Soo Lin. Her pockets stuffed with the weight of explosive emerald jewels, she had somewhat overestimated her jump onto the money shelf behind her, and currently hung from it by her fingertips.

With every ounce of strength she had, she pulled herself up and began her climb towards the vault door. The thudding knock came from behind the vault door for a second time. Settling herself against a corner of the vault door, high above the motion floor sensors, she placed the bombs against the door. Pressing two knocks against the door, she quickly began her climb towards the back of the vault.

The explosions she expected never came.

Stood outside the vault, Mary glared, unendingly, at Sherlock, the supposed genius who had put this whole plan together. Sherlock, muttering, slammed the detonator against his palm. Still nothing happened.

"Did you check the batteries at all, Sherlock?"

He didn't blush, but the shifting of his weight and the slight, blank stare he directed at her served as a good enough answer. Mary shook her head and plucked the detonator from his palm, switching the batteries.

"It's always the simplest problems that trip—"

The rest of her sentence was blown away by four powerful, but muted, blasts sounding against the vault door. Tentatively, she and Sherlock stepped forward and tried the door. It slid open and they stepped inside.

Wisps of smoke curled in the air and in front of them, a crumpled cash cart was pushed away. Soo Lin crawled forward, strands of her hair falling in front of her face. She met them with a raise of her eyebrows.

"You really took your time, didn't you?"

* * *

Martha strolled into the lounge, very much alive and out of the opulent fashions preferred by her late German counterpart. Brushing at the skirts of her dress, she, along with Lestrade, Wiggins and a newly arrived John and Mike watched the monitor.

"Have you ever been married?" On the screen, the grainy image of Sherlock, Mary and Soo Lin packing up the seemingly endless piles of money played. Lestrade nodded. Martha smiled, pointing to the screen. "_That_ is better than any marriage."

"Mr 'olmes would struggle to agree with you there," Wiggins retorted. Bringing out his phone, his fingers sweeping over the keypad, he pressed it to his ear.

"Yes?"

"You're up."


	12. The Heist: Act Three

Moriarty's fingers were tight around hers. A phone rang, but she ignored it, focused on her companion. His features were fixed into a glower and he pushed against the security staff currently flooding the arena, tugging her through the swelling, jeering crowd that threatened to spill out of the stadium.

The blackout had passed by in what felt like a second, but the riot had begun within a hairsbreadth of it, angered fans and panicked trainers flooding the ring, attempting to separate the two warring champions, both of whom threw accusations at one another, stirring up their blood and their adrenaline and their tempers. Still keeping a tight hold on her hand, Moriarty steered her towards the waiting car. He threw a glare over his shoulder at her.

"If you're not going to answer that, then at least turn it off."

Blushing, she nodded and picked her phone out of her coat pocket. She narrowed her eyes. Anonymous call? She held the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Hand me over to Moriarty, I need to talk to him." Molly froze. That voice. She _knew_ that voice. Swallowing back the urge to say their name, she held the phone out to Moriarty.

"It's for you," she supplied when he said nothing, a silent demand for information. His scowl deepened when he took it from her.

"Who is this?" His tone was one of dangerous calm.

"Well, to put it simply…" the speaker mused, "I'm the person who's robbing you."

Moriarty spun round. "_Say that again!_"

"I'm the person who's robbing you."

Molly eyed him carefully, still and silent at the sight of Moriarty's growing rage.

"My vault cannot be breached," Moriarty hissed.

"No, it can. And it has."

Moriarty slid into the waiting car, briefly beckoning for Molly to follow suit. When the passenger door slammed closed and the driver asked where they wanted to go, Moriarty bit out one order: "The MGM Grand. Now."

* * *

The doors to the security centre burst open, and the staff barely had time to register the presence of their boss before he was barking orders at them.

"Bring up the cameras in the vault, now!" The monitors flickered, and the whole room was met with the sight of an empty, pristine vault. Moriarty laughed, speaking into the phone. "Seems you were mistaken. My vault has not been breached."

"Keep watching."

New images appeared on the screen. Where the security staff jumped and their faces drained of colour at the sight of three masked men packing up stacks of money in the vault and three guards lying bound and unconscious in the corridor, Moriarty still wore his mask of calm. The speaker, the _robber_, laughed.

"Seeing it yet?"

Moriarty glanced at Moran. "Find how much money is in the vault."

Moran nodded and swiftly jogged from the room. Moriarty, his eyes flicking towards Molly before settling back to the monitors, continued to speak into the phone.

"So, you got into my vault – congratulations. You're dead."

"I don't think so. In fact, you're going to help me and my men leave your casino."

"That's awfully presumptuous of you. Might I ask you how you leaped to that conclusion?"

Molly had remained silent from the moment she'd heard that voice, which still rang in her ears. She remained blank-faced to what she watched even when her mind whirred, slipping each and every last puzzle piece into place.

_In a word?_ His self-assured, confident smile shone up at her in her mind's eye. _You._

_What exactly do you think I'm doing here?_ Well, she had the answer to that now. She turned away from the security centre and Moriarty. No-one noticed her leave.

* * *

"Okay, here's how I know you'll do as I say." The sound of the slot machines rang somewhere close by. "Your manager is probably, as I speak, telling you that you have over $160 million dollars stashed away in your vault. We're only taking about half – thought it fair, considering you have a business to run. The other half we're leaving in the vault – and it is booby trapped I'm afraid, just in case you suspected."

Feeling a tap on the shoulder, she turned and saw the sight of Molly's sweet smile, lit up by the low orange glow of the casino lights.

"I'm guessing you already know what this means, but I'll explain anyway: let our 80 million go, and that 80 million you have in your vault will be safe. But if you try to stop us, or disobey us at any point, then both cash loads will be blown. So your choice, really, comes down to two options: lose 80 million dollars secretly, or lose 160 million dollars publicly." Flicking her hair over her shoulder, she cupped the phone against her palm.

Moriarty stared at the monitors. Six men, all of similar height, but little else could be gleaned about their features. They worked with an irritatingly casual air, as if stealing 80 million dollars was an everyday occurrence. Biting at his lip, he kept his gaze fixed on the image of the monitors.

"Moran. Make the call."

"Hello Irene." Molly spoke coldly, but there was a hint of a smile. Still a hint of the old Molly she had met seven years ago, when she had worn her wedding ring on her finger, not around her neck. "What are you doing?"

"Hello to you too little dove. I'm not staying long – just a small favour for Sherlock. He sends his love, by the way."

Molly burst out a dry, insincere chuckle.

"Of course he does." Her eyes hardened. "Where is he?"

"I suggest you go upstairs and watch some television Molly," Irene said in a skilful evasion of the real question. "I'm sure there'll be something interesting on."

"Yes, go upstairs – and let him actually go through with this?"

"If you like," Irene shrugged and she lifted her palm away from the phone, just in time to hear Moriarty's falsely jovial tone accepting her deal. She grinned, winking at Molly before she turned and resumed strolling past the slots. "Great. Now, put me on speaker phone, there's a good boy – I want your staff to hear this."

"Here's what you need to do: my men in the vault will be depositing six bags into the elevator, which will rise to your cages," Irene instructed. "You will have three guards standing by, each of them ready to take the bags out onto the casino floor. If they take more than 20 seconds to do this, or if you try and make a switch at any point, then the money – every last piece of it – will be blown away. Got that?"

"Those are – you're in my casino," Moriarty seethed.

"And your hotel too!" Irene said, examining her nails. She really needed to get those topped up sooner rather than later. Perhaps she'd ask Kate to do them. She was good like that. "When your guards get to the casino floor, a white unmarked van will pull up outside. Your guards will load the rear – and don't approach the driver's door, the results won't be pretty. Once the van is secure, and I know that my men are safe, you will have your vault and your money back. How does that sound to you?"

"It sounds very well thought out. If you weren't stealing from my vault, then I might admire the thoroughness of it. But as I have complied with every stipulation, every instruction you have made of me, I have one request of my own to make." Moriarty sucked in a breath. "Run. Run, as fast as you can, and hide for as long as you are able – because I want to find you, and I want you to make it difficult. For if you make it difficult, it will be so much more delightful to me when I do find you. So yes: _run._"

It might have been emotionally satisfying for Moriarty to make such a threat, but it was of little use, and little consequence. The phone had already been abandoned in a handy bin, and Irene was already in her car, driving away from the casino. Adjusting her mirror, she smiled when she saw the trademark flashing lights of the SWAT van arrive.

* * *

The SWAT team, masked and armed to the teeth, stormed through the casino floor, past wide-eyed patrons who struggled to get a closer look and moved straight through the cage doors and down the corridors of the cages. Moriarty, not having moved from his spot in from the monitors, gradually began to pace. The radio in his hand crackled.

"Reaching elevator doors now… night goggles on," the leader said. "Prepare to cut power."

Moriarty eyed a second monitor. The three masked men were still there, still prowling around his money.

"Cut the power," he snarled. The monitors flashed dark.

"We have two – three guards – down – wait—"

"Guys!" A second voice sounded, panicked and alert. "Someone's here, someone's here!"

"Take 'em down!" the leader barked over the radio.

Gunshots followed, then an explosion. Moriarty's eyes fluttered closed.

"Lights!" the leader panted. "We need power, now!"

The monitors immediately lit back up. On both screens, two images, both devastating to Moriarty's ego as the other, played out: thick smoke filling the vault, money fluttering slowly towards the ground, surrounding the approaching SWAT members and the remaining others slowly coaxing the guards back into consciousness.

"Confirm: high explosive incendiary device has been detonated. Continuing the search for survivors."

Moriarty nodded. The charred money continued to dance in front of the screen.

"Where's the van? I told you to track it."

"It's at the airport," Moran answered. "Our men are still tracking it."

"Take it," Moriarty snapped and he finally span around. "I'm heading down to the vault – you will stay here and find out how the hell these _idiots_ managed to get into _my bloody system!_"

* * *

Billy just had to giggle to himself. These people were so stupid. True, he wasn't exactly the most intellectual of people, but he was clever and he knew a ruse when he was presented with one. These goons that had followed this van all the way to the airport were just dumb. Beside him, Gary sighed.

"Yes love, they've been tricked by a remote controlled van – it's all very funny. Get on with it."

Billy tried to aim a glare at him, but it didn't stick.

"Fine," he said, somewhat sullenly. He reached forward, pressing at one of the many buttons on the console. The goons fell back at the force of the explosion and their expressions of fear soon turned to ones of astonishment when the contents of the van became clear to them. Gary silently knocked the car into reverse and began the drive back to the hotel.

* * *

"We failed to find any suspects, or survivors, sir. We can't—"

"You need to leave."

"Sir, our investigations—"

Moriarty turned. His smile was a little too bright. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

The SWAT leader nodded. "Your vault, your rules. Blue Team – out!"

They rapidly filed out, and Moriarty was left, stood in the middle of the ruined carcass of his previously perfect vault. His radio bleeped. Moran's worried voice bled out.

"Sir, our men captured the van."

"And?"

"There – there was no money in the bags, sir. Just fliers – fliers for insurance."

Fliers. Almost, tangibly, laughable. He began to wander around his vault, ruined beyond repair, was nothing more than a charred husk. Something, out of the corner of his eye, made him pause. He spoke into his radio, his voice soft and his tone even.

"Moran, look at the robbery."

"Yes sir."

"What does the floor look like?"

"The floor?"

Moriarty gave a mirthless laugh. "Yes. The floor."

"It looks – plain."

"Exactly," he replied. He swept at the floor with his foot, staring at the now dust covered logo. "We had the Bellagio logo installed on Tuesday. And what does that mean? It means that what we were watching _wasn't real._ It was a tape."

"A tape?" Moran stuttered, his astonishment silencing him. "What – what happened to all the money?!"

* * *

One by one, the SWAT team moved back out of the casino, towards their waiting van. Panting, bags in hand, the leader flipped up his visor. John Watson ran his hand over his face. He grinned widely.


	13. Ella Fitzgerald

**_Author's Note:_**_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited this story. The chapter title refers to a line in the original movie: "Off the top of my head, I'd say you're looking at a Boesky, a Jim Brown [...] not to mention the biggest Ella Fitzgerald ever!" (Yeah, I'm rubbish at chapter titles.)_

* * *

_Make the call._

A lot of power could come from three little words. It could be given, and taken away. In this particular situation however, those three little words had proved to be the final nail in Jim Moriarty's coffin.

The call had come through almost immediately, and via a simple hacking programme, Wiggins was the one who had answered, a loose American twang in his voice.

"991 emergency response."

Behind him, Lestrade and the others quickly began to struggle into their costumes.

"Congratulations on the accent – didn't think you had it in you," Lestrade remarked as Wiggins finished the call and stood to grab at his own costume. He shrugged.

"I've got more talents than just 'acking – anyway, yours will 'ave to be just as good."

Lestrade smirked. "Not a problem."

* * *

In the vault, atop the money they planned to rob, sat Sherlock, Mary and Soo Lin. Mary, her hand tucked under her chin, sighed.

"How long do you think they'll be?"

"30 seconds," Sherlock replied. "Most likely."

Contrary to his affirmation, the elevator doors slid open. A nest of red sniper lights fell on the three's chests, but Sherlock only received the gesture with a one-shouldered shrug. John flicked a grin at the three of them.

"Night goggles on." His American accent echoed down the empty corridor. "Prepare to cut power."

The lights cut out and immediately, they all got to work. The others shoved the money into bags, Lestrade and John's voices filling the air.

""We have two – three guards – down – wait—"

"Guys! Someone's here, someone's here!"

"Take 'em down!" John fired his rifle into the air as Lestrade threw a grenade into the vault, orange briefly lighting the corridor.

"Lights!" John panted. "We need power, now!"

After that, everything had just, well, fallen into place.

* * *

Moriarty stormed down the corridor, his fists clenched tightly around his radio. He _had_ to have had something to do with it—had to have tipped them off, or given them information. Just something. There was little to no possible way Sherlock Holmes was an innocent bystander. He was many things, but never that.

He pushed open the door to the interrogation room and Sherlock immediately fell to his feet, knocked to the ground by a swift punch to the gut. Bruiser loomed over him. He raised his hand to deliver another blow.

"My vault got robbed tonight, Mr Holmes."

Bruiser stopped, and Sherlock tilted his head up, squinting. A bruise was already forming on his jaw. "That's unfortunate."

"You had a hand in it. Didn't you?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock groaned and, drawing himself up to a sitting position, he clutched his stomach. "I was, after all, enjoying the company of your attack dog here."

Moriarty nodded once to Bruiser, who drew Sherlock up to standing in one swift action, causing another deep, painful groan to spill from the man.

"You'd better not have had a part in this, Sherlock. Because if you did—" Moriarty's voice lowered to a soft whisper. "I will _skin_ you."

Sherlock smirked. "Luckily, I have no idea what you're talking about."

* * *

She should've blown the whistle on the whole thing. Sherlock, Irene, the job, everything. She should've gone back down to the security centre and tipped him off. _Watch television._ She'd tried, by God she had tried, but her mind hadn't left her alone. She'd just blindly obeyed, and for a reason she couldn't quite figure out. Maybe it was just the audacity of it all. There was Irene, stood in the middle of Moriarty's own casino, helping Sherlock rob him blind—and all with that smile on her lips and that teasing lilt in her voice. And there was the audacity of Sherlock, even _daring_ to steal from James Moriarty. And for what?

She jumped at the sound of the phone.

"Hello?" she answered, grabbing it.

"You might wanna turn to channel 88."

She narrowed her eyes, looking around. No cameras to speak of. "Who are you?"

No answer. Simply the sound of a hung up line. Hesitantly, she switched on the television.

It was a feed to one of the many security cameras nested within the corridors of the Bellagio's cages. A door to the right opened and Moriarty, his face drawn closed in quiet anger, walked out. Sherlock followed, escorted out by Moriarty's bodyguards.

"You're free to go – however, I will give you one last chance, Sherlock." Moriarty tucked his hands behind his back and tilted his head. "Tell me where my money is."

"I don't know. But, if you want your money, I get it back to you in at least 24 hours."

"Okay. How?"

"Well, there is a condition."

"And what's that?"

"You have to give up Molly in return."

Molly frowned. That was pointless. Had he not, hours earlier, made his goodbye? Had he not told her that she deserved to be happy? On the screen, Moriarty shrugged.

"She's replaceable."

"Not to me."

Oh. The realisation came down over her in one fell swoop. He wanted her to be happy, yes; but he knew, he'd always known, that she could never be happy with James Moriarty. In a way, she'd known it herself, but had been—as was usual with her—too stubborn to admit it.

"But if you wish for your money, then here it is: I know someone – they can track down anyone you wish. I was—"

Moriarty bent back his head, blasting out a laugh. "Get out of my casino. Moran, contact the police and tell them that Sherlock Holmes is in serious violation of his parole."

A spiteful, bitter act of a man who knew he could do little else. Molly watched Sherlock turn away, advancing back down the corridor towards the exit. Unnoticeable to anyone, he glanced up, his blue eyes locking straight onto the camera. She found herself smiling. The last time that had happened, she'd been celebrating her engagement on a cruise. By the end of the cruise, she'd stepped off the boat with no fiancé. A year later, she had ended up married, to a man who was difficult, stubborn as her, irritatingly enigmatic, devastatingly handsome and loved her, wholeheartedly.

It took little hesitation for her to gather up what little things she had and leave, slamming the door behind her. Moriarty had already lost his money; if she was as replaceable as he claimed her to be, he could no doubt deal with losing her as well.

* * *

The handcuffs were snapped against his wrists, and he was steered forward to the waiting police car.

"Wait!" Her voice echoed, and her running footsteps grew closer. "Wait! That's—"

She pushed forward against the policemen, coming to a halt in front of him.

"That's my husband." For a long, single moment, she studied him. She smiled. "I watched the television."

"Anything good on?"

"Define 'good'."

Sherlock's own smile, small until that point, grew and he leaned in to kiss at her cheek.

"I'll see you in three to six months."

* * *

Outside the Bellagio, a gathering took place. It started gradually, a trickle of small nods and smiles shared between people who, according to a passing bystander, were no more than strangers, joining together to pause and witness the spectacle of Las Vegas.

The gathering only lasted a short while; one by one, the members departed, slipping into the crowded streets, each one of them wearing small smiles that, when pressed, witnesses would only ever have been able to describe as 'content'. The first to leave was a tall man, with thinning dark hair, who departed from the place with a single of his head. The last was an elderly woman, who, as the lights of the Bellagio fountain display faded away, daubed at her eyes with her handkerchief. Only two decided to remain, huddled close together.

"How do you feel?"

Mary contemplated him and his question with a smile. "Unstoppable."

Reaching forward, she cupped at John's cheek and kissed him, deeply.

* * *

_**Three to Six Months Later…**_

The London air was crisp, the leaves on the trees were faded into a darkened orange and the prison door swung closed behind him with an echoing clang. Tugging at the collar of his shirt, Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and walked forward. Stood just outside of the prison fence was John, as ever dressed in an unimaginative combination of shirt, jumper and jeans. Bland, plain, unnoticeable.

"You brought what I asked?"

John nodded and silently retrieved a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. Taking them, Sherlock lit one and smiled as he tucked it between his lips and took a drag. Together, they walked towards his car. Sherlock glanced out of the corner of his eye.

"Other side of the street, silver saloon car. Seen them?"

"They tracked me all the way here."

"You think they could be bought off?"

"Probably."

"How much?"

"A hamburger each?" Sherlock stifled a laugh and John grinned, lightly shrugging. "Okay, maybe two."

"I hope the last few months haven't been too strenuous on you, by the way."

"Depends what you mean by strenuous," John replied, his gait and his grin giving away the nature of his thoughts. Sherlock chuckled, tapping out his cigarette on the pavement.

"You need to get yourself a girl John, if you're going to continue making those sorts of jokes."

John grinned wider and stepped around to the side of his car, opening the door. "I'm ten steps ahead of you there."

Sherlock bent slightly to see a pregnant Mary Morstan sitting in the front passenger seat, a glow about her skin and her hands rested on her belly. She smiled in greeting.

"Your friend works fast," she said, the trace of a laugh in her voice. She nodded to the back seat. "We picked up a passenger along the way – hope you don't mind."

Sherlock turned his head to be faced with Molly Hooper sitting in the backseat. She matched his cool arch of an eyebrow and he duly got into the car, settling into the back. Her wedding ring glinted in the light; it was still a perfect fit. Silently, he took a gentle hold of her hand, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss. She hummed in low approval.

"That suit,"—her eyes traced over his clothing—"it looks awful on you."

He was unable to hide his own smile. Reaching up, he cupped at the back of her head and leaned closer. Instinctively, she tipped her head back as their mouths touched in a long, lingering, passionate kiss. Linking his hand over Mary's, John pulled away.

The bodyguards followed on.


End file.
